Why I Love Women At Parties

The first time I went out with the woman who's now my wife, we attended one of the most deranged parties I've ever been to. The event was in honour of a famous comedian's new tour. What should have been a quiet night turned into the last booze-up before the end of the world. Would my sensitive elfin flower survive such debauchery? Let me put it this way, alongside my degenerate friends she held her own like the bona fide Caligula at a Caligula look-a-likes convention.

At 3am she was staggering up the road behind said comedian screaming, "Oi! You were brilliant! Come BACK!" While he was attempting to escape - no doubt regretting he'd entered show business in the first place - I was searching for a cab to get us out of there. And when I tried to stop her chasing the object of her alcohol-addled affection she smacked away my hands, at which point two officers in a police car slowed down to ask if I was giving her grief.

She spent the next day in bed - a relief, as it gave me the chance to reflect on the true (but thankfully intermittent) glory of the woman I’d decided to spend my life with. Planning a party and not inviting women would be like laying a load of dynamite and forgetting the matches. Women are the mayhem-inducing catalyst at every bash I've ever been to. They are the secret ingredient that can turn a night in a coal shed into New Year’s Eve in Cuba, a half bottle of Spar's own-brand vodka into an intoxicating elixir. They can make the party hours pass like minutes - and turn the aftermath into a week of agony and apology.

The only reason men go to parties is to meet women. And after we've met you and fooled you into hanging around with us, we go back to parties then stand back in awe, watching you misbehave. No one makes the most of a party like a woman: you always turn up looking incredible. Prior to arrival, your hair and make-up must not be touched - in fact, all physical contact is banned. On arrival, you accept a drink, comment on the music and the lively nature of the assembled crowd. You have another drink. By the third you've forgotten all about your hair and have started dancing. Another drink and everybody has to dance. Another and the wrecking spree starts. This is when you gang up with your friends, right the week's wrongs, show off, humiliate us and, ultimately, fall over.

You may note loudly the other women in the room are 'tarts', demand an end to the relationship and cry into your drink - thus ruining the make-up you spent two days scouring the shops for and an afternoon applying. Then you'll want to put something slow on the stereo and fall back in love. In this fine mood you'll demand to go home. You generally leave a party with the grace of Napoleon retreating from Russia - breaking things, telling us we don't care. You then ask tearfully: "Am I beautiful?" (Yes. Even when you fell down the stairs); then... "Am I still beautiful?" (Yes. Even though your mascara has run so much you could be playing drums with Black Sabbath); followed by the classic, "Do you love me?" (Yes, even though you gave me a fat lip for noticing the 'tarts'.)

I'd hate it if you carried on like this every night, but you don't, and that's what makes the party you so thrilling, I love your transition from poised, vivacious beauty to something deadly and dangerous.

That said, countless relationships have come undone at parties, mainly because men try to fight the unstoppable force that is a party girl in full flood. To those deluded souls I say: bow out, take a back seat and watch the mayhem from afar, with pride.

So, do I love women at parties? Put it this way: I wouldn't leave a party without one.

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