I’m envious of friends who can host – my parties are always terrible

Don’t call Amanda from Amandaland a “monster”! If you think she’s a monster, then you haven’t been paying attention, or you are in denial about the fact that you, too – all of us, in fact – are a little bit Amanda. Because the simultaneous appeal, tragedy and horror of Amanda is that she repeatedly falls on her face trying to be something she’s not.

Who hasn’t done that? If you’ve ever thrown a party, had your photo taken, been on a date, tried to paint a picture, write a book or give a speech and had high hopes for it, you’ve probably been a little bit Amanda. Because in your head, you will hope and plan that it goes a certain way, and that will inevitably come up against hard reality.

This is totally me. In my head, I always imagine things as very perfect and wonderful. The reality always falls short.

Just one example: by rights, I ought to have stopped having people for dinner at my house many years ago. I am the worst host in the world because I am so nervous and uptight. I so badly want to be one of those casual people who has friends round, starts cooking when they arrive and just chops and laughs and flings snacks about while everyone swills wine and has the time of their life.

By contrast, my dinner parties are always so quiet, they always feel so small and meek. I’m always dizzy with stress, the food goes wrong. I ought to just stop! Stop the madness! And yet I keep trying. Over and again. I can’t get the message that I’m no good at this.

Most recently, I tried yet again, with only three guests. I imagined something intimate and gossipy. I planned the food and bought wine and flowers. Then all my guests had to get up early the next day. Fine by me – I’m exhausted by 9pm anyway. The flowers were lovely, I kept the food simple so as not to get stressed. What can I say? All the ingredients for a good time were there, but something just went wrong because the conversation almost immediately turned to all the people we know who have died, the war in Ukraine and parking tickets. It was grim.

A few weeks later, I went to my friend Catriona’s last-minute party. She had invited 15 people and then more arrived unexpectedly. I’d have freaked – but she didn’t care! Guests were throwing down snacks and shrieking and popping champagne bottles. The food was amazing, there was a huge cheeseboard. Everyone had the time of their lives. I felt so chastened. I felt so very Amanda.

Of course, Amanda aims higher than just a fun dinner party: she wants to present a careers talk as if it’s a TedTalk; she reframes her part-time job at a kitchen and bathroom store as a “collab”; she gets an exciting new rich boyfriend only to discover he’s a drunken idiot. It’s all exaggerated and mad because it’s comedy – like other characters we’ve loved; Victor Meldrew and Hyacinth Bucket.

But at the heart of all the silliness, there is something very real and very human about her character – otherwise it wouldn’t resonate so much.

It’s not the literal fact of Amanda wanting to be a mega-influencer with her ridiculous “Senuous” brand – it’s the repeated trying and failing, the willingness to get up and give it all another go, no matter what happened last time. And we, as viewers, watch through our fingers. “Oh god,” we think. “How is it going to go wrong this time?”

Perhaps I’ve learned my lesson, though. Last week, I went to see a friend for a drink at her house. Very Amanda-like, I got it into my head that I would bring an elaborate snack board, with salamis and cheese, pickles and a whole baguette. I wound myself up into a neurotic tizz about the whole thing but then had a thought: who was I doing it for?

It was a bit of an epiphany. In the end, I took round a bag of posh crisps and a bottle of wine and we had fun. It wouldn’t have been more fun with the stupid snack board and I didn’t unnecessarily disappoint myself – or, frankly, freak out my host.

Amanda will never change. She can’t, we need her to be forever that way for our entertainment. But, just maybe, I can.