Imaginary Party Review

As the Imaginary Reviewer, I get invited to lots of soirees hosted by people who wish to curry my favour. Of course, my opinion on music, film or literature can’t be changed by sausages on sticks and after-dinner Armagnac, but this doesn’t stop people trying. My evenings are all full with black tie events and charity fundraisers, so much so that my tuxedo hasn’t had a night off in three months, and the Union of Formalwear Garments are threatening me with legal action.

And yet, my favour remains uncurried. The hosts of these parties have not managed to influence my reviews in any way; the only effect they’ve had on The Imaginary Review is fodder for my reviewing eye. So here are some reviews of some of the recent shindigs I’ve attended.

The evening at the Witheringham-Smythe’s home in Marylebone Square was a resounding success on all levels. Firstly, the other guests were all wonderfully interesting people. Mister Chatterstoft, a widower from Stoke-on-Trent, regaled us all with a rousing tale of his exploits in Bangkok. How we laughed at his witty anecdotes about cases of mistaken identity, slapstick police chases and missing prophylactics! And the food, laid on by the Witheringham-Smythes’ catering staff was to die for. The roast suckling duckling bathed in a reduction of its own tears was particularly delicious. Reverend Simms’s erotic shadow puppetry rounded off a delightful evening.

Lord Arse-Tebbit and his intriguing man-friends hosted a charity fundraising auction at the Blatherwick Manure Museum Hall on Tuesday. To raise money for the building of a new gallows in Blatherwick Town Centre, Lord Arse-Tebbit was auctioning off his daughters, all twenty-three of them. Bidding was quite frenzied at times, with some lots being decided through fist fights in the car park. A great time was had by all, especially Lord Arse-Tebbit’s daughters, who enjoyed the attention. I ended up winning Gladys, who now has pride of place on my mantelpiece until Saint Swithin’s Day, when I have to give her back.

I wasn’t particularly fond of the wine tasting hosted by Terence Flanagan at the Devonshire Hotel in Upper Wapping. A series of lapses in the evening’s organisation meant that no wine had been provided, and so our group of eager connoisseurs had to make do with a tap water tasting instead. This was far from ideal, especially after Mrs Killorphan caught diphtheria. We did, however, attempt to make the best of the situation, and I can reveal that – from our novice tastebuds, anyway – the upstairs gents’ toilets tap had the worst tasting water, while the best was in the third-floor staffroom.

Finally, Steve Capshaw had a wonderful soiree at his parents’ house while they were in Portugal for a week. A delightful time was had by most of his guests, especially Mark Jones who snogged Debbie Bradshaw in Steve’s parents’ bedroom, with many rumours circulating that she let him cop a feel as well. The food was excellent, and the good people at Kebabs! Kebabs! Kebabs! Takeaway down the road are to be commended. Sadly, the abundance of refreshing beverages seemed to take its toil on some people, with Johnny Murphy throwing up in the kitchen sink. Also, regrettably, somebody defecated in the hall, and Steve had to clean it up himself, as the culprit never admitted to it. All in all, this was a superb party, and I for one can’t wait until Steve’s Mum and Dad go to Prague for Christmas.