I’ve partied with royals and rockers. This is the best bash I’ve ever attended

The best thing about Christmas is mistletoe. That little green sprig gives a girl permission to lock lips with the sexiest person in the room. Yep. All your Christmases will definitely come at once. Best of all, any excessive eroticism can be easily excused by an over-indulgence of mulled wine. If caught out by a jealous spouse, you can simply explain that if you hadn’t been seeing double, you wouldn’t have been feeling single. Hiccup!

Another great thing about a Chrissy party is that everyone from maid to monarch is in the festive mood. The most upmarket Nöel bash I ever attended was at Clarence House. I can’t tell you what words I minced with the Prince over mince pies, or I’ll be locked in the Tower and fed to feral corgis, but suffice to say that a few crown jewel puns may have made a cheeky appearance in my patter.

It was a bit awkward though to be the only guest who didn’t own a castle. Still, I tried hard to fit in. “Um … I once hired a bouncy castle,” I explained to some duke or other. His nostrils flared, so violently I worried I was going to be hoovered up into those hairy orifices. I then compounded my social undesirability by asking what His Lordship hired for the kids’ birthday parties? “A bouncy slum, perhaps?”

From aristocracy to rock royalty – by far the best Christmas bash I attended was at Mick Jagger’s London home last year. When I found myself gyrating with the swivel-hipped dance demon himself, believe me, the lyrics to (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction have never fallen so flat. In fact, I’m still on such a high, I’m waving to the International Space Station.

Actually, my most surreal Christmas Eve party was at Basil’s Bar in Mustique, a joint famous as a Mick Jagger holiday hideout. The world is clearly divided into two categories – the Haves and the Have Yachts.

On this occasion, prosperous yachties from all over the world had sailed in for Yuletide shenanigans. The champagne flowed, the band rocked – basically the jollity was off the joie de vivre-ometer. Until a guest suddenly grabbed the mic to announce that while we were distracted with carol singing ashore, thieves were systematically robbing all moored vessels. There hasn’t been such a mass exodus in dinghies since Dunkirk. Abandoned on the dance floor, I was gobsmacked at the naivety of these swanky sailors. I mean, pirates in the Caribbean, now there’s a shock!

A guest suddenly grabbed the mic to announce that while we were distracted with carol singing ashore, thieves were systematically robbing all moored vessels.

While on the aquatic theme, the worst Christmas party I ever endured was actually aboard a boat circling Sydney Harbour. My pal had promised that the ship would be positively listing with A-listers, but no sooner had we set sail than I found myself marooned in a conversational cul-de-sac with a hedge-fund corporate cowboy and a pinstripe-underpanted accountant. These men had nothing to say – and spent the whole night saying it.

Worse, after a few cocktails, one started groping me while warbling, “Oh come, all ye faithful!” With no keel-hauling available and the cruise not scheduled to end for another four hours, it was a case of HMAS Claustrophobia. I found myself looking longingly towards shore. Was it too far to swim? An encounter with a great white seemed preferable to these upmarket loan sharks. This party gave new meaning to a Christmas turkey.