Party; a social gathering, especially for pleasure or amusement. That is the dictionary definition. So why the damn anxiety?

Tonight's bash had been playing on my mind for the past agonisingly long five days. Well, that and Monica Tierney. As if my first proper party wasn't stressful enough, fate had tossed in a beautiful girl into the mix, the spark that threatened to set the tinderbox alight.

Would I be expected to kiss her? Of course. We weren't kids. It's what guys and girls did. A time-honoured tradition. A pivotal step to becoming a man. A test of masculinity. Except with most tests, you get the chance to prep. What if I did it wrong? A guy in my old school had bitten his girlfriend's lip on their first smooch. French kissing? I could barely wrap my tongue around, Je m'appelle Aaron, et j'habite à Dublin.

Robbie had told me not to worry. It would come naturally, he said. But there was nothing natural about the sweat seeping from my pores on this cold October evening as I paced my bedroom floor, working myself into a state.

After my father finished getting ready for work, I locked the bathroom door and ran a hot bath. My dad had to do a twelve-hour shift a Saturday night. Now, that was unnatural. But he did so without complaint. That's what real men do. "Man up, Aaron," I repeated to myself whilst lowering myself into the hot, foaming water, bubbles floating like cumulus clouds on the surface.

The place resembled a sauna when I stepped out and towelled myself dry. I wiped the fogged-up mirror with my palm. Admired the slim naked body reflecting at me, fingertip absent-mindedly tracing around a tautening nipple, until I caught myself.

I wrapped the towel around my waist, tight, and raced upstairs to my room.

Stuck on Madonnas Immaculate Collection while I studied the clothes in my wardrobe, waiting for inspiration to take hold.

By the time Borderline had petered out, I had my outfit arranged on the bed and my confidence had spiked.

And then came the indelible classic. As soon as the shuffling, tuneful baseline kicked in, my fear faded fast. I happily shook my hips to the beat and crooned into the mirror, like a liberated soul, arms extended over my head, mimicking the Queen of pops slinky dance moves. At which point, the bedroom door opened.

Keith stood in the doorway, mouth open.

Madonna's vocals filled the room. "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh..."

"I'm getting changed," I said, trying and failing to keep my voice under control.

"Into what—a belly dancer," Keith said, half-sniggering, backing out onto the landing.

Suddenly I baulked at wearing the salmon pink shirt I had picked out. I sent it back into the wardrobe and threw on a v-neck pullover instead. The only item of black attire I possessed. Black clothing always reminded me of priests, funerals, and terrible '80s metal bands. Admittedly, the sweater went well with my grey suede bomber jacket.

My mum subjected Keith to the kind of grilling a seasoned detective would have been proud of before we escaped out the hall door.

Once we were out of sight of my house, Keith doubled back into a nearby lane and retrieved a green carrier bag from a hedge. Booze. Another time-honoured tradition I had as yet to experience.

My dad warned me alcoholism runs in families. It sounded plausible. I remember being at my Granduncle's wake when I was eight and my father got into this huge argument with my grandfather about his boozing. My dad advised him to pack it in, that he'd had enough. My Grandda told him to mind his own business, although not so politely. I overheard one of the other mourners call my da a dry-shite. An hour later, Granddad fell off his barstool, hit the ground with a loud thud, before climbing back up on his perch and carrying on drinking. Everyone in the pub found it hilarious, except my dad, who stood there mortified. I guess it's funny when it's not your father on the floor.

I swore I would never drink. I also promised myself I would become a professional footballer. What do eight-year-olds know?

The gassy beer did not break on my tongue like a wave of amber nectar, as Paul Hogan declared in those TV commercials. Crocodile Dundee; the lying sack of shit.

"You've got to knock it back," Keith said. I followed his advice for two reasons. One; I was afraid somebody would come around the corner and catch us. Two; it seemed the easiest way to down the horrible stuff.

I pressed the bell. The girl who answered looked warily at us. "Who are youse?" My explanation that we were friends of Nicky didn't wash. She closed the door over and yelled, 'Nicky'.

Moments later, Nicky rushed out, draping her arm around my shoulders like a warm feather boa. "Look at you. Nice threads. Quite the little hombre. Colour me impressed."

All week long whenever I'd imagined tonight, I'd had this vision of thumping rock anthems and people partying their asses off, as you see in those American High School movies.

It wasn't anything like that.

Britpop tracks played at an elevator friendly volume. Nobody wanted pissed-off neighbours phoning the police. The girls were gathered in the sitting-room drinking bottles of blue-coloured vodka-based drinks, smoking cigarettes, and chatting and laughing. I had expected plenty of made-up, dancing girls in shorter than short skirts. They were dressed to the nines, but only one had braved the October night in a tiny denim skirt and bare legs. And no one dared to dance.

I noticed how the girls tried to dress older. Every teenager eagerly awaited reaching adulthood, when the whole world would open up for you. Ironically, a lot of mature women dressed like teenagers in short skirts. It occurred to me we spend most of our lives unhappy with the age we are. There were two sweet spots. When we are kids, we are content with being kids. And you never hear people in their twenties complaining about getting old. I calculated we have a combined period of twenty-two years, where we are satisfied with our current coordinates on our lifetime timeline. For the other fifty, we are trying to push the clock forward or backwards. What a crazy way to live.

"This is Aaron," Nicky announced to the room, "my little dote."

A few of the girls glanced in our direction, before resuming the ongoing argument over who was hotter, Blur's Damon Albarn or Oasis' Liam Gallagher.

"Monica's not here yet," Nicky said. I caught the whiff of alcohol on her breath and wondered if mine reeked of beer. Did I have a buzz on? I didn't feel any different, physically. I was out of my comfort zone, but, minus the attendant awkwardness.

The guys hung out in the kitchen. Drifting coils of sweet-smelling smoke cloyed the air, overpowering the clashing scents of colognes and body sprays. Keith's face lit up in recognition.

Nicky the introductions. A couple of the lads grunted. They were older than us, and even less interested in making our acquaintance than the girls were.

A tall guy with short spiky hair studied me for a bit. "You Murphy's brother?" He turned to the others, "This is Johnboy's bro."

Instantly there was a sea-change in attitude. Guys came over and respectfully shook my hand. It was like a scene from The Godfather with me cast as Michael Corleone.

One said, "Ah, man, your bro is a legend," before launching into a story. "So we're toking it up in the field when the bacon arrived to shift us on. Huge red-neck country boyo, bellowing out the window at us to hop to. Next thing Johnny slaps NWA on the tape deck, starts blasting Fuck the Police at top volume. Shoulda seen the faces on the coppers. Losing it, so they were. Don't ask me how the big muck-savage didn't get out and kick the unmerciful shit outta Johnboy. And him stood there grinning at 'em. Pure comical, it was."

More stories about my older brother, the esteemed druggie and renowned lunatic, got bust out. It amazed me the high regard they held for someone who had dedicated his life to experimenting with every mind-altering substance known to man. A guy whose entire purpose on this planet seemed to be to cause maximum mayhem everywhere he went. Was this an achievement worth lauding?

Somebody passed me a lighted jay.

I refused.

He looked shocked. "For real, you don't smoke?"

"Wouldn't touch a cigarette," Keith said, snatching the joint from the outstretched hand. My newfound audience was distinctly unimpressed. This sentiment was exacerbated when Keith shared the story about catching me mamboing to Madonna.

"No way."

"Seriously?"

"Wha'?"

"Towel wrapped around him," Keith said, spliff dangling from his lips, "Like what them Indian birds wear, a whatchamacallit... A sari. Him bopping away to Like a Virgin." The room exploded in ear-splitting laughter.

Some smarmy-looking guy with a goatee piped up, "Madonna? Bit of a dancing queen, are yeh?"

"It was on the radio," I said.

"In a towel?"

"I'd just taken a bath."

"Bath. Oooh fancy."

"What's fancy about a bath?"

"I shower. Blokes shower. Women bathe."

"We don't have a shower."

"You don't have a shower?"

"I didn't build the fucking house, did I." Resolved to own one of those big fuck-off stalls with sliding doors when I got a job and my own place.

Someone whispered loudly, "Leave it out. His brother's a nutter. And those blokes he knocks about with are complete psychos."

"We're only buzzing with yeh," the spiky-haired guy said. "I've been known to mosh about my room," before stating explicitly, lest there be any confusion, "to Nirvana."

Keith dug another can from the bag and offered it to me. "Aaron's no queer. He's meeting a bird here tonight. Monica something-or-other."

"Monica Tierney?" a lad said. "She's a little ride, that one. Like Johnny, eh? He's a savage for the women. I've seen him pull some fine things." The conversation switched back to more of my brother's exploits.

I cracked open the can. In my younger days when my brother and I knocked around together, nobody ever noticed me. I was an insignificant presence next to his larger-than-life persona. A shadow he seemed ashamed of, like some noxious gas he had passed and was unwilling to lay claim to.

I watched the lads laughing and joking amongst themselves. A little tribe. The type of tribe I never felt part of. Would I even want to? The only thing I envied them was their contentment.

While waging a private battle with boredom, Nicky tottered in to rescue me. "Your date's here."

She stood by the grated fireplace, arms folded across her chest, looking chic in white pants, a navy and white striped top under a cropped denim jacket.

I approached her, mouth contorted in a nervous smile. "Alright, Monica."

She looked at me as though I were trying to be funny. "It's M-OH-n-ih-k-ah."

"I'm sorry." Although, I was unsure what for. I wished I smoked, give my hands something to do. "So-o, brilliant party."

"I wouldn't know. I've only arrived."

My smile barely hung in there. Flirting was not my forte. And Monica's reaction fell far short of inviting, with her throwing troubled glances across the room at her peers. Blur's Girls and Boys played on the stereo. "Top tune," I said, in an effort to resuscitate the flatlining exchange. I received a shrug in response. I was dying a death.

"You come here on your own?"

She smiled. I couldn't read whether that was a good or a bad sign. Was she smiling at my lame attempt to flirt with her, or was she encouraging me to try harder?

I had no idea. Lost, and searching for inspiration.

I had been abroad once when I was eight. My folks travelled to Herzegovina, on a pilgrimage to Medjugorje, where the Virgin Mary had allegedly appeared. We stayed with a local family in the village. They had a young boy about my age. Not speaking the same language, communicated through signs and gestures. Enough that we could spend our days playing soldiers in the sun-baked fields as the continuous chorus of chirping crickets rang out around us. Yet, two teenagers who shared a common tongue and a mutual attraction were incapable of finding a means of expressing themselves.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the giggling girls bunched together on the settee goggling over, enjoying the cringe-worthy comedy show.

As I stood there looking awkwardly at Monica, mute, fidgeting with my sweater cuffs, I thought about those adults longing to be teenagers again. They must be mad. Or else those rose-tinted glasses they wore had distorted their perception of the past because no sane person would ever want to be this age. To suffer these endless indignities.

Monica's smile had gone the way of the dodo. Her fingers scratched her leg. I took this as my cue to exit stage left.

"I'm gonna head back to the kitchen for a sec," I mumbled.

She nodded curtly.

It's said liquor loosens the tongue. I needed another drink because mine was tied in more knots than a sailing rope.

I remember chugging the third can of beer to instil some Dutch courage. And someone handing me a foul-tasting liqueur. 

Objects became hazy, and the room undulated.

Music blared. Drunk from a glass I hadn't poured. Cobain screaming about teen spirit. Crashed against a door. Stereophonic laughter swirling around my ears.

Needed to orientate. Find my sea-legs. Stop the spinning.

I slumped over the counter, clinging on like a ship-wrecked mariner to floating flotsam to keep from going under.

Revived by repeated pokes in the ribs and someone urging me to, drink up!

With eyes half-shut, my hand fumbled along the laminate worktop until it found the tin of lager. Picked it up and swallowed. Which precipitated a chorus of 'Ugh' and sustained laughter from the crowd of lads. It was only then it sank in. I had drunk from the dead can the others were using as an ashtray.

The ramifications of which were swift and wholly predictable.

I staggered to my feet. Seconds later, projectile vomit came spewing from my mouth like the cherry scene from The Witches of Eastwick.

The resulting commotion sent the girls swarming into the kitchen. Sarah, the girl whose parents were unknowingly hosting this little shindig, was understandably livid. She launched into a furious tirade, compared me to various farmyard animals before yelling at me to get the fuck out of her house.

And so, hanging from Keith's wobbly shoulder like a wounded soldier, we weaved into the chill night, footpath fluid beneath our feet. The twenty-minute walk to his home took us the guts of an hour. The fresh air helped settle my innards but did nothing for my power of speech. My current inability to formulate a distinct sentence made my earlier lamentable efforts with Monica comparable to the work of a master linguist.

When we reached Keith's house, he searched his pockets for the keys. He mumbled something about his da being up. The bell wasn't functioning, so he thumped on the chipped brown door. I hung on to him, shivering and fearing an apoplectic parent answering, and praying I wouldn't heave.

His bleary-eyed father answered, beer can in hand. His lip curled. "Youse look like a couple of queers," he said, before lurching down the hall.

Once we had successfully negotiated the stairs, Keith stumbled into his room and promptly passed out on the bed, leaving me to crawl into the rolled-up sleeping bag stretched across the bare floorboards.

I awoke the next morning in unfamiliar surroundings, with a funky odour and a poster of Pamela Anderson and her exposed cleavage smiling down at me. It took a moment before I found my bearings, then a lightning bolt of pain threatened to split my skull in half.

My anguished groan preceded the sound of bedsprings creaking. Keith sat up in his bed like a vampire rising from a coffin in an old Dracula movie. He looked down at me and smirked. "How's she cutting, boss?"

"I'm in rag-order. My head's in bits."

"You were buckled."

"How many cans I drink?"

"Don't know. You were skulling them back like there's no tomorrow."

"Was I? All I remember is puking my ring."

"Desecrated that bird's kitchen. And that lanky prick with the goatee. Ruined his shirt. Lucky he didn't chop yer bollix off. Probably would've done, only you vomited all over the knives."

My head hurt when I laughed. "Your da going to give us grief after last night?"

"Wha'? Nah."

I looked google-eyed around the room. A glossy centrefold ripped from a Playboy mag, was sellotaped to the door. "My mum'd crucify me if I had something like that on my wall. Your mum must be dead cool."

"Half right. Been buried in Glasnevin for the past ten years."

"I'm..."

"Some pair on her all the same."

"What...oh, right..."—looking at the centrefold—"they're a bit big."

"Bigger the better."

"I'm more of a leg man."

"I tell yeh, I could bury my head between those bad boys, stay there for days."

"She's kinda plain."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothin'... Kate Moss, now—"

"I've bigger tits than Kate Moss. Literally."

"I don't get the fascination with huge breasts."

"You're weird, you know that."

I wriggled out from the warm sleeping bag, dirty clothes sticking to my skin, looking forward to getting home and sinking into a warm bath.

At the bottom of the stair, Keith and his father exchanged blank, bleary-eyed grunts.

I walked home. Unsteady on my feet, the afternoon sunlight searing my retinas. My mother opened the door. "God Almighty, look at you. Like the Wreck of the Hesperus." She proceeded to bombard me with a barrage of questions. Sometimes, I would have found this at best embarrassing, and at worst. extremely annoying. Despite my unhealthy condition, this was not one of those times.

I was glad to be home.

The carnival of self-recrimination, on hold. For now.