The Party - Part 1

It’s just coming up to Christmas, and my birthday – a big birthday, is only a few short weeks away. Usually I don’t really celebrate my birthday, due to a mixture of bad planning and bad timing. It falls on Christmas Eve and so doing anything on my actual birthday is difficult. I don’t usually enjoy parties – not my own anyway, as I tend to worry about who I haven’t spoken to and I get vexed at no shows. I’m turning 40 though, and if I don’t celebrate, then I know I will regret it at some point later. After pondering on whether to have a house party or a dinner party, I decide that I don’t want the hassle of moving furniture or cleaning up afterwards. I also need space and my flat isn’t big enough for the sort of gathering I have in mind.

I looking at reserving a private area in a bar somewhere. With this in mind I pop into Floridita in Soho and enquire about renting a semi private area for the Saturday before Christmas. The events organiser tells me “We can cater for 70 people in a semi private area”. “Okay, that sounds cool. How much does it cost?” I ask. “Oh it’s free to hire” she says, “but we have a minimum spend of £7000.” ‘£7000!!?? You’re taking the piss!’ Sadly she isn’t. One of the problems with having a Christmas birthday is that organising anything gets expensive. So many people are trying to organise parties that the demand pushes the price up – in the same way that it costs a fortune to buy red roses on Valentines Day. Still, there is somewhere else just around the corner from here that I have earmarked and stopped by a couple of days ago. It looked quite nice and I was told that I could rent a couple of booths at minimal cost. However, I wanted to see what the place is like when full of people. I pop by in the evening after leaving Floridita and head to the downstairs bar, only to be confronted by a sea of teenagers listening to Justin Bieber. It’s way too young, and is another place to strike from the list. However, there is one more venue that I have seen and is just around the corner from here in Archer Street.

I walk in, nodding to the doorman who I spoke to a couple of days earlier and head to the downstairs bar. I’m pleased to see the place full with a cool looking clientele in their 30’s and 40’s. As I walk amongst the crowd, a waitress approaches me. “Would you like a mini fish and chips sir?” she says. “Oh, yes thanks” I say surprised. I move to the bar to take in the atmosphere of the place and try to picture it on a Saturday night with all my friends. The barman approaches, “Would you like a beer sir?” he says as he hands me a bottle of Becks. “Er, yeah, sure” I say, again surprised. I eat some more of my mini fish and chips and sip my beer. In the middle of swigging my beer I hear something that makes me turn around ‘clink clink clink..’ A grey haired man of about 50 stands up on a coffee table, just as the whole room looks at him. “Hi guys, I’m so glad you could all make it. It’s been a big project of seven years in the making as you all know, but we’ve really made a difference to the lives of people in Iraq and you should feel proud...” ‘Oh shit’, I freeze as I realise It’s a private party and I’m eating his food and drinking his drink. And now as he talks, he is looking right at me with fish and chips in my left hand and a beer in my right, and the quizzical look on his face makes it clear that he’s thinking ‘who the fuck are you?’ I can’t leave though whilst he’s speaking as I’m standing right in front of him. So I nod and clap in time with everyone else throughout his speech and will him to get it over with so that I can dash out. This he does, and I swear that I can hear people asking “Who’s that guy?” as I skulk out the door.

That bar is ok, but one thing that has come from seeing these different places, is that I am getting a better idea of the sort of party and venue that I would like to have. Nice as it was, if I rented a few booths in that last place, then I think I would feel as if I’m renting a space at someone else’s party. I walk along Old Compton Street wondering if I am actually going to find anywhere I like and a slight melancholy hits me. I wonder if I’m being too fickle as I realise there’s a chance that the party might not happen.

And then I walk past Boheme Kitchen on Old Compton Street and I happen to look up and there see a very cosy looking room with Christmas lights on the first floor. My phone rings. It’s G - she’s local and wonders if I’m close by and fancy dinner. She joins me and I tell her what I’ve been up to. We go into Boheme Kitchen to enquire about whether the cosy room I’ve just seen is one of their function rooms. The manager informs me that the room is part of Soho House and takes me to their reception. I’m not allowed to book the room I’ve seen because I’m not a member. However, I am able to rent the basement bar and it turns out to be available on the night I want. He leads us downstairs to the bar, opens the door and switches on the lights. It’s chic, cosy, perfect and I love it. “It’s so you” says G, “You’ve got to take it”. I smile, although mentally I write it off. If Floridita wanted £7000 minimum spend for a small roped off area then the private hire of this basement bar is bound to cost something silly. “It’s £200 for the hire of the room and £1500 minimum spend behind the bar” says the event organiser. G looks at me and raises an eyebrow knowingly. I look to the event organiser “I’ll take it.”