The invitation from "LivingTV: the home of Will and Grace" was exciting. Because, as homosexual sitcoms go, Will and Grace is the best I've ever seen. The invite was to the channel's birthday party, a celebration of "ten amazing years on air". Apparently, LivingTV's biggest commission this year has been a chat show, hosted by the former page three model Melinda Messenger.
Hard to tell what persuaded me to take a night off from packing boxes for our house move. The offer of a "carriage" to and from the nightclub in central London was a major selling point, though. And so it was that my friend and I tottered out of a Mercedes, wearing matching three-inch heels - and into the club, Pasha.
"Holy Moly!"
"Bloody hell!"
"Quick - get to the bar." We shot off in separate directions in search of gaps among the thirsty hordes. We were intimidated by the vast number of guests - not because of any insecurity, but because we were fashionably late (by two hours) and feared the free bar would run out any second. We couldn't have been more gloriously wrong. In just under five minutes we reconvened at the back of the vast dance floor with a glass of champagne and a double chaser each. Does this sound excessive to you, dear moderate reader? Then you have never been to a TV public relations party. Being sober is not an option.
We inched our way past girls called Tasha and Talia spilling out of barely-there tops and sprayed-on jeans. The floors were already sticky with posh alcopops spilt by gyrating marketing executives. As we knocked back our drinks and debated how to get the next round, a man called Vince sidled over.
"Are you two sisters?" he yelled above U2. "I mean, really really sisters?" He'd been drinking since lunchtime. "Well I can, can't I? 'Cos I own the advertising business." He paused. We were supposed to say "wow".
By now, my toes were drenched in other people's Coca-Cola. On the plus side, the bar was still serving up free drinks. The crowd was loosening up, and though the average age of guests must have been 35, the free booze and the intoxicating realisation that it wasn't about to run out were making us all act like kids on our first holiday abroad without our parents. The dance floor looked like an out-takes movie from You've Been Framed, mums and dads yipping it up, all of us unable to believe how lucky we were to be out of the house midweek. At the edge of the floor were two podiums with poles down the middle. On one, a very pissed bloke, still in the raincoat he'd worn to the office, was attempting a pole dance above cheering work colleagues. This was Faliraki for the Ford Focus driver. Just when I thought things couldn't get weirder, Bananarama appeared on stage. That's right, the Bananarama. Oh, come on, don't pretend you don't remember the biggest-selling female pop group of the Eighties.
I rushed forward to get a closer look at the group I couldn't stand when I was 15 but who had suddenly become my favourite band of all time.
"I loved them!" I lied to Vince-the-barely-standing.
"Are you two sisters?" he yelled back.
As Sarah and Karen, two-thirds of Bananarama, skipped sheepishly through four or five tunes, it was almost as if an adult had come in and turned on all the lights, spoiling a great party. The crowd scattered, gathering in dingier, darker corners. I was left almost by myself singing along to "Robert de Niro's Waiting". Then I realised what was wrong. In the TV world, you can get sick-drunk, take drugs, employ hookers and dance like your grandad, but you must never reveal your true age by knowing the words to any songs older than Melinda Messenger.
