The Doveston nodded sadly. ‘It’s the loss of face that hurts me most. I mean, having a party really gains you a reputation. If you know what I mean.

‘I do,’ I said. ‘Gaining a reputation is everything.’

‘Well, I’ve blown it now. I shall become the butt of bitter jokes. All that kudos that could have been mine is gone for ever. I wish the ground would just open and swallow me up.

‘Surely there must be some way round it,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you hold the party somewhere else?’

‘If only.’ The Doveston dabbed at his nose. ‘If only I had some trusted friend whose house was available for the evening. I wouldn’t mind that he earned all the kudos and gained the reputation. At least I wouldn’t have let everybody down. Let all those beautiful girls down. The ones who would be putty in the hands of the party-giver.

There followed what is called a pregnant pause.

Yes, all right, I know it now.

But what else could I say? It just seemed the perfect solution. Well, it was the perfect solution.

‘The church hall,’ I said to the Doveston. ‘You could hire the church hall.’

If only I had said that. But I didn’t.

‘Hold the party here?’ said the Doveston. ‘In your house?’

‘The perfect solution,’ I said.

‘We ought to ask your parents first.’

‘They’ve gone out and they won’t be back before twelve.’

‘That’s settled then.’ The Doveston rose from the settee, shook me by the hand, marched to the front door, opened it and whistled. Then all at once a number of young men I’d never seen before came bustling into my house carrying crates of brown ale, cardboard boxes full of food and a real record player and records.

In and out and round about they went, like some well-drilled task force. The Doveston introduced me to them as they breezed by.

‘This is Jim Pooley,’ he said. ‘And this is John Omally and this is Archroy and this is Small Dave.’

‘Where?’ I asked.

‘Down here,’ said Small Dave.

‘Oh, hello. They’re not in fancy dress,’ I whispered to the Doveston.

‘Well, nor are you.

This was true. And this was a problem. If the party was going to be held at my house, how was I going to make the big dramatic entrance in my costume?

‘Hadn’t you better get changed?’ the Doveston asked.

‘Yes, I ... But—’

‘Listen,’ the Doveston said. ‘You are the host of this party and I think you should have the chance to make a big dramatic entrance in your costume.’

‘That’s what I was thinking.’

‘Then you go up to your bedroom and get ready, I’ll take care of things down here and when everybody has arrived, I’ll come and get you and you can make a really big dramatic entrance. How’s that?’

‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘You’re a real pal.’

‘I know.’ The Doveston pushed past me. ‘I want those cartons of cigarettes stacked in the kitchen,’ he told one of his task force. ‘That’s where I will be setting up my shop.’

So I went up to my bedroom.

It didn’t take me too long to get ready and having posed a good few times before the wall mirror, I sat down upon my bed and listened to all the comings and goings beneath.

The sounds of music drifted up to me as platter-waxings of the latest rockin’ teenage combos went round and round on the real record player at forty-five revolutions per minute.

And although I didn’t know it then, I was about to make history. You see, during the 1950s there had never been such a thing as a teenage party. Lads were conscripted into the armed forces on their thirteenth birthday and not set free upon society until they reached twenty. At which time they were considered to be responsible citizens.

My generation, the post-war baby boomers, missed conscription by a year and what with us never having had it so good and everything, we literally invented the teenage party.

And what I didn’t know then was that the party in my house would be the first ever teenage party. The one that would set the standard against which all future teenage parties would be judged.

So I suppose, in this respect, I have much to thank the Doveston for. And although he did blow up my dog, he did apologize afterwards.

I sat there upon my bed, getting all excited.

An hour or so later, I began to fret. My bedroom was hazing with cigarette smoke rising from the kitchen, the merry sounds of partying were growing ever louder and the Doveston had not yet come to get me.

I reasoned that he was waiting for the right moment. Indeed waiting until the gang were all here.

At around about nine my doubts set in. Waiting for the right moment was all very well, but I was missing my own party and I was quite sure that I had heard one or two breaking sounds. As if things were getting smashed. I really couldn’t wait much longer.

It was nearly ten before a knock came at my door. My bedroom was now so full of smoke that I could hardly see across it. I stumbled to my door and flung it open.

On the landing stood John Omailly, his arm around the shoulder of a teenage girl. I smiled heartily. Omally was dressed as Parnell, the girl as Mrs O’Shea.

I must have created quite an impression, what with all the smoke bursting out around me and everything. The girl shrieked and Omally fell back, crossing at himself.

‘Where’s the Doveston?’ I asked.

Omally made dumb pointings in a kitchenish direction.

I shrugged. I couldn’t wait any longer. I was going down now and that was that.

It was quite a struggle getting down. The stairs were crowded with couples and these couples were snogging. I stepped over and between them going ‘Sorry, sorry’ and ‘Excuse me, please’. There were so many people in our little hall that I had to push with all my might. The front door was open and I glimpsed a great deal more party folk outside in the garden and the street. I fought my way to the front sitter where all the dancing was going on and tried without success to make myself heard. The record player was on much too loud and nobody was paying me the slightest bit of notice.

I must confess that I was fed up. Really fed up at all this. I shouted ‘Oi!’ at the top of my voice and at that very moment, the record that was playing finished and I found that I had the attention of everybody in the room.

They turned and they stared and then they screamed. Well, the girls all screamed. The blokes kind of gasped. That softy Paul Mason, who used to be in my class at the Grange, and who I was unimpressed to see had come dressed as a pimple, simply fainted. And then there was a lot of pushing and shoving and shouting and a good deal of backing away.

I hadn’t noticed that the Doveston was there. His costume was so convincing that I wouldn’t have recognized him anyway. He hadn’t come as Pamell at all. He had come as Lazlo Woodbine, private eye. Trench coat, fedora and vacuum-cleaner nozzle. He stepped forward and looked me up and down. I smiled back at him and said, ‘What do you think?’

The Doveston extended a finger, ran it down my cheek, put it to his nose and sniffed.

‘It’s tomato ketchup,’ he said. Then, turning to the starers and the gaspers, he said, ‘It’s all right, it’s only tomato ketchup.’ And then he turned back to me and he glared. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re up to?’ he asked. ‘Coming down here with your head all covered in tomato ketchup and frightening the shit out of my guests?’

‘But you said I was to come as something trendy.’

‘So you came as a tomato ketchup bottle?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve come as President Kennedy.’