…and I’m all partied out. That’s not how the weekend should start.

So, let’s rewind to Wednesday. That was the night of the S____ party at the Cuckoo Club, through a rope and down some steps on a side road off Regent’s Street where, the Richmond and Twickenham Times reliably informs us Paris Hilton was pelted with flour for hanging around with a fur-using fashion designer.

Fortunately there were nether Hilton heiresses nor flour-hurling protesters in sight, but the entertainment was a rather bizarre ‘human beatboxer’. He looked like such a geek I’d assumed he was an overclocking tech hack, but it turns out he could do highly unnatural things with a microphone, turned up loud enough to make my hair shake.

Spent most of the night chatting to Karen H and Vinnie, whose party it was, and who made sure that we were well-plied with vegaquarium food and drinks, so that by the time I stumbled out the freezing streets were gently swaying.

Thursday, it was a mothers’ day party from which all mothers were banned. Quite why they settled on that, I don’t know, but the motherly extent of it stretched only to a few pictures of older women pasted to the walls of the bar. The food was also slim pickings. ‘We thought you’d all prefer more drink,’ said one of the PRs. ‘So I’m afraid the food’s going to be a bit crap.’

That was refreshingly honest, so I spent most of the rest of the evening talking to her. Unfortunately, when some food did turn up it was nachos, a little bit of which got stuck in my teeth and eventually worked its way free in the middle of a particularly energetic gesticulation, flying out of my mouth and landing neatly on her hand. She stared, I stared. I tried to brush it away, but it slid down and stuck to her finger.

Oh, the shame.

She did promise me much worse had happened in her 15 years on the job, but that didn’t stop her bringing it up again when she next got back from the bar with fresh drinks.

I didn’t eat any more that night.

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