It was at about 1am in a marquee last October that I came to a sudden but blindingly obvious realisation — I don’t like big birthday parties. One of my closest friends was in the process of turning 50 and because she has always been the most sociable person I know, she was making a meal of it. There was a curry van and a full bar. There was a dancefloor and there were DJs. There were glittering dresses and emotional speeches and, sweetly, sickeningly, her village choir turned up to honour her with several quite long songs. The celebrations went on long into the night, we all drank far too much and somehow no one drowned in her swimming lake. She says it’s a pond but it’s a lake. Then, because she lives hundreds of miles from any hotels and she’d invited hundreds of people to her birthday, I had a choice of places to sleep: a child’s bunk bed or the back of my Renault. I chose the latter and woke up in the morning with a hangover, a sore back and several people looking in at what they thought was a corpse.
It was at about 9.30pm at a small country house hotel last weekend that I came to an equally sudden but less blindingly obvious realisation — I like small birthday parties. One of my other closest friends was turning 60. She didn’t want a fuss so it was just them and their grown-up kids, Harriet and me, and three other couples. We had a fabulous dinner. There was no dancing and no one sang quite long songs at us. I could hear what people were saying to me and they could hear what I was saying back. Shortly after midnight we all retired to actual beds. Nobody slept in my Renault.
What on earth is wrong with me? I’ve always loved a big birthday party. My 40th was one giftwrapped tiger cub short of Uzbek dictator-level revelry. My 30th lasted three days. My twenties were just one party after another, like The Great Gatsby minus the money and the poignant, meaningful ending. And now I’ve become that grumpy old man who sits with the wallflowers and shouts, “Speak clearly into my ear trumpet, the music is too loud.”
Is it an age thing? Not sure. Jeff Bezos, 60, looked like he enjoyed having hundreds and hundreds of random guests at his space-themed mega-bash in January. I doubt he knew half the celebrities his fiancée, Lauren Sánchez, had invited, but he looks happy enough in the million photographs he posed for. I would have hated it. I’d have spent the whole evening worrying about the caviar running out. I’d have had a whisper-argument with Lauren in one of my kitchens — “Why did you invite Orlando Bloom?” “I didn’t.” “Well, why’s he here then?” But this is because I’m a curmudgeon and Jeff is the king of parties. Why am I not the king of parties?
If it’s not age, maybe it’s the associated fatigue? I can no longer drink with abandon. I can’t even stay up with abandon. And I’m far too old and too tall to sleep in the back of a Renault.
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Or maybe it’s a decline in sociability. I still like meeting new people, but only in small doses and controlled environments. I don’t like meeting lots of new people in one go. I definitely don’t like meeting them at a party.
“HI, I’M MATT.”
“LAWN MOWER.”
“SORRY?”
“THE FISHMONGER IS IN THE BUCKET.”
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“GREAT, ME TOO.”
For the past three years at least Harriet and I have been discussing plans for an extravagant joint 50th next summer. Those conversations have involved long guest lists and fancy catering and maybe we should hire a field of tepees and I wonder if Sting still charges a million quid per performance? But last week, on the way back from the very small 60th, I plucked up the courage and confessed — I don’t want a big birthday party, I told her and started to sob uncontrollably. Harriet looked relieved. She didn’t either.
The new plan is more streamlined. Sting is cancelled. Orlando Bloom is off the list. The Kardashians will have to find something else to do that weekend. Harriet and I are going to Rome for the weekend, or maybe Lyons for the day, or maybe the New Forest for the afternoon, perhaps with some friends, perhaps not. We’re curmudgeons but we’re curmudgeons together. It’s awful but it’s a relief.
What is wrong with us?
