We all love a party with a happy atmosphere, one which starts with a documentary about the achievements of an Italian leader and ends upstairs in a bedroom, atmosphere everywhere. You are an entertainment acrobat, performing a complicated balancing act of blondes and brunettes; of Eastern Europeans and ribboned trinkets; of antipasto, puppies and concealed camera phones. You are in charge of distributing envelopes of travel expenses to the more accommodating guests, the ones who followed your strict dress code and have political ambitions. Since puberty, your hormones have been nagging you to plan parties like this, parties heavy with the scent of duty-free perfume and male menopause. Dawn will break on a long table of regret, a stereo playing Berlusconi's ballads on repeat, shivering teenagers making no eye contact as they wait for their taxis. You will hum to yourself as you clear the glasses, as you launder the boss's manscara from a satin pillowcase.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/jun/28/berlusconi-party-planner
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