“In recent years, I’ve been very lucky to have attended all manner of barmy luxe events with my drag agency, Rent-a-Queen. But I think my favourite ever bash was a student house party that we threw at Leeds back in 2009. I decided to celebrate May Day with a Wicker Man-inspired pagan festival in my flat including a giant wooden maypole that girls off my English course danced around in frilly white dresses. All the men had rabbit masks and I dragged up as Lord Summerisle, Christopher Lee’s character in the 1973 film The Wicker Man.

“We led a procession down to the park, banging biscuit tins with wooden spoons and whisks (there we no Bluetooth speakers back then). We started a fire, which was topped with a wicker man that me and my housemates Ben and Leo had fashioned out of some chairs that we’d stolen from the back of a homophobic pub.

“The police eventually turned up and my friend Maggie, who was half naked and covered in tribal paint (frozen blueberries), screamed: ‘The sacrifices have arrived!’ I look back sometimes and think, wow, if only we could have bottled that confidence, that instinctive rebellion and that innocence, too. Maggie married rich and lives in the US. I’m still throwing bonkers parties.”

“Everyone knows that the best parties of your life are when you’re not on the guestlist, but have hustled your way in on the door. Or at least those of us without shame know that.

“My day started with one invitation at least – I was attending the Bafta Television Awards at Southbank, and word circulated about an exclusive after party being hosted at 180 Lofts, which leaned more towards my taste: Black British media hotties, a DJ playing dancehall, Afrobeats and grime, and the promise of unlimited picantes.

“I changed out of a brown glossy satin Martine Rose suit and into a blue Issey Miyake two-piece that I thought more appropriate for an afterparty. My first mistake. The publicist suffering my presence, but kind enough to let me in, noted that the after party was black tie, too. So, there I was, in flowing blue pleats, pretending this break from code was a statement on gender.

“After that entry, I had little left to lose, so I made sure the champagne waitress knew my name, I leant on a table and twerked for a Love Island star, I broke two more people in, I met a television actor and spoke to him as if he was in character, advising that he take revenge next season. And I do hope I’m still off the guestlist next year so I can do the same again.”

“Few people would associate the buttoned-up world of Swiss watchmaking with wild parties. But, pre-pandemic at least, the biggest brands would think nothing of inviting several hundred of their closest friends (OK, retailers, journalists and other hangers-on) to lavish, high-concept corporate affairs.

“The biggest of these happened at the now-defunct Baselworld trade fair. Rumour had it there was a team devoted to its planning a full 12 months in advance, with a seven-figure budget at its disposal. We’re talking holograms, immersive circus displays with troupes of actors, worryingly over-the-top pyrotechnics and a staged battle between a helicopter and two Lamborghinis. Cavernous warehouse spaces would be turned into Bangkok street markets or lush rainforests (complete with real parrots), Studio 54-style nightclub scenes or kitsch homages to Americana, with classic cars, dad rockers and wrestling cages.

“After a while, nothing seemed too outlandish, be it an ice palace, English country garden or Berlin-style techno-club, with latex-clad dancers parading in gantries above the dance floor. Were it not for the photographs – and powerful hangovers – the whole thing would seem like a bizarre hallucination come the next day, when the attention turned once again to chronographs and dive watches.”

“If it was a truly great party, the chances are you either don’t remember it or are forbidden from talking about it. But those aside, one of the most glamorous parties I attended was a gala dinner and fashion show co-hosted by Donatella Versace and De Beers at Syon House, London, in 1999. Prince Charles was guest of honour; Prince the musician was just a guest, and almost every celebrity you’ve ever heard of was there.

“Going to a party solo, you’re always a little nervous, so I loitered around the back with some smokers I knew until the last moment. Suddenly, we were bundled aside by dozens of burly security men who weren’t expecting anyone to be out there. It wasn’t a royal they were escorting, but thousands of diamonds that were to be placed under the Perspex catwalk that would later be walked upon by Kate Moss, Naomi Campbell and Amber Valetta as Jon Bon Jovi performed. Eventually I made my way to the table and found out I was seated at one of the Versaces’ tables with the now King, Catherine Zeta Jones, Liz Hurley, Hugh Grant and Pierce Brosnan. Someone clearly must have dropped out.

“Two things I loved about that evening that promptly brought me back down to earth. One: when I went to the loo, I was the only person without a bodyguard standing behind him. Two, at the end of the evening, as I was waiting for the valet, I was joined by Sir Michael Caine and Sting and their wives. We all made polite small talk, and I prayed that their cars would arrive before mine. It wasn’t to be so. Ahead of the chauffeur-driven limos came my battered old Fiat Cinquecento. As everyone watched, the valet handed me my keys to drive myself home. Poot! Poot! went my tiny car as it trundled down Syon House’s endless drive.”

“For my 35th birthday, I planned to meet friends at New York’s The Grill (the old Four Seasons) for wildly expensive pre-dinner martinis. High on nostalgia for my imaginary past life as a Condé Nast editor, I stomp up to the Seagram Building in A.P.C. shorts paired with a Marni blazer and MR PORTER Derbies. The door guy immediately barks that “men can’t go in with shorts”. After considering an emergency re-pantsing at a nearby H&M, I quickly realise that I’m better off without their homophobic dress code. My outfit was cute, and I’d rather wear formal military shorts than pay $50 for a monkey with a twist.

“We decamped to Lotte Palace’s Gold Room, where my bare legs could breathe freely, and my best friend surprised me with Sam Hunt tickets. Then it’s off to Porter House Grill in the Time Warner Center to indulge a meal that includes every kind of alcohol and every part of the cow. After nearly four hours, there were more glasses on the table than there are staff at the restaurant.

“We end the night at Townhouse, a gay bar lovingly fermented in the 1980s, where my sensual yet fastidious outfit was finally vindicated by the sensual yet fastidious patrons. We sang old show tunes accompanied by an incredibly patient pianist, and I’m reminded of what life is all about: getting drunk.”