Like Russell Brand’s endorsement, this advice may come too late to be of any help, but I’m offering it anyway: don’t host an election-night party. In the 25 years I’ve lived in the UK I’ve never been to a party that was in any way enhanced by having it run concurrently with an election. Fun is often is short supply, while despondency, bad feeling and boredom are usually plentiful. Think back to that endless knees-up of despair back in 1992. Think of the BBC’s 2010 party boat, the one with all the pundits and celebrities trapped on it – a floating, media-friendly version of hell.
I came across a few tips for successful election parties – themed foods, a sweepstake, plenty of drink, a mix of guests from across the political spectrum – all of which sound like ingredients for disaster if the wrong results start trickling in. If you must entertain, I would consider restricting your guest list to people who’ve seen you cry before.
The idea is that an election-night party is a celebration of parliamentary democracy, but this election is not shaping up to be a sporting fight, or even a decisive match: imagine a bad-tempered, injury-ridden Champions League final, with the actual outcome settled a week later, in court. Exciting, yes – historic, even – but not much of a social occasion.
It’s fine to go to an election-night party if you’ve been invited to one – you can leave as soon as the party stops being fun, even if that’s well before the first declaration from Houghton and Sunderland South. But never host one: when things get weird at 3am on a school night, you don’t want to be in charge.
Nepalese blues brother
It can be tough being a Chelsea fan – not at the moment, admittedly – but in the past I’ve not envied my children their unwavering support for a bunch of underperforming millionaires who, even when they’re playing well, are rarely regarded as being among the Premier League’s leading examples of probity and fair play. Their successes may be deserved in football terms, but there’s rarely a sense of karmic justice about it.
As an American I reserve the right to waver; I even once suggested to them that we might quietly switch our allegiance to a team whose ticket prices were more in line with enjoying professional football over the long term. The middle one stood up and slapped both forearms. “You cut me, I bleed blue!” he shouted. Ah, well, I thought. OK.
There is, by contrast, something joyously uncomplicated about the devotion of the overseas supporter. I have a friend in New York who is a diehard Chelsea fan – all the fun of winning, with no need to ignore the opprobrium that comes your way, because none does.
I watched last Saturday’s match with a friend who received a text from a sherpa he’d worked with in Nepal last year. “My house is cracked so I’m living outside of home,” it said. He was desperate to know whether Chelsea had scored yet. If nothing else, he had good news before half-time.
A jam on the A27
There’s a photo doing the rounds on social media of a man playing guitar while driving down the A27 – a five-string Warwick bass, apparently. Reaction to the picture ranged from outrage to disbelief, and even to denial. “You cannot drive and play the guitar at the same time,” said Neil Greg from the Institute of Advanced Motorists. That’s what I would have thought, Mr Greg, but now we have photographic proof. It’s difficult to tell from the picture – a grainy snap taken from a passing bus – exactly how he’s managing it; I’m assuming he’s using some kind of slap technique, reaching out with his right hand to steady the wheel on the off beat. I’m tempted to regard this feat with something near admiration, but then again I’m not in the car with him. It might sound rubbish.
