The Evening Standard's Diary bash is usually a grand affair held at an imposing venue near Sloane Square in west London. This year, the venue changed and the invite had the legend: At Home "Earl Percy". It wasn't until I was standing outside the dank Earl Percy pub in Portobello wearing my poshest outfit and jewellery that I realised my mistake.

As I walked up the fag-stained carpet and into the dusty, rented room (1960s bead curtains and thousands of fairy lights), a young diarist eagerly explained that the venue was "extremely trendy" and "modern". One disappointed reveller handed me a glass of champagne and whispered: "It was also £40 to hire as opposed to £1,000, but they had to spend nearly a grand to make it look decent!" Suddenly I was surrounded by the Hamiltons, Neil and Christine, who, each Christmas, like 21st-century Elephant Men, are paraded around the party for the cruel amusement of the "real" guests. Christine explained to me that, once again, she had been "indiscreet" on a personal matter and, as I glanced over her shoulder, I spotted two young hacks looking very satisfied - they knew that their next gossip column was complete.

At my first Diary bash two years ago, I was pushed, pulled and dragged towards another favourite diarists' "freak", poor old Terry Major-Ball. There he stood, on his own, smiling benignly at the backs of those around him. The desperate diarist introduced us, saying: "Terry, tell Lauren about the pitfalls of having a famous family . . . Terry suggests you do a show together or write a book or something . . ."

After a couple of unsuccessful minutes, he ran out of steam, and Terry and I were left alone.

The single piece of advice John Major's brother wanted to give Cherie Blair's half-sister was: "Don't drink too much around journalists." Sadly, he was already three sheets to the wind at the time. That year was Terry's last and the Hamiltons' first appearance as political celebrities. They seemed blissfully unaware that guests were hissing "Shame" and "Repulsive" to their backs as they passed by.

All this casual cruelty reminds me that, deep down, I still love mince pies, Christmas carols and the naive idea that, for one month a year, people can enjoy a bit of Yuletide schmaltz. The last time I enjoyed all three was as an actress in a fringe production of A Christmas Carol. Each night through December and January, I donned my white costume, a curly Dolly Parton wig, vast red cape and handfuls of glitter and demanded with booming voice that Scrooge and the audience spread love and joy whenever possible.

It wasn't all nostalgia and tears, however. Thanks to the clumsy adaptation of Dickens's priceless words, some of the lines intended as poignant left the audience in giggles. At one point, I showed Ebenezer Tiny Tim's empty seat by the fire. Voice aquiver, I warned: "I see a little stool in the corner . . ."

The choice of carols was also questionable. During one rehearsal, the females in the cast threatened mutiny rather than sing the second verse of the "wassailing" song. The dispute was settled by the flip of a coin. We lost. So it was that, on the first night, the gorgeous young bloke in the front row was amazed to hear me sing "We have got a little purse of stretchy leather skin/We want a little of your coin to line it well within" directly at him, like some sort of latter-day courtesan.

Sadly, such innocent giggles, along with peace and goodwill to all men, are not on the media menu this year. Here, December means business as usual, with even more booze.

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