House Party Review: Surbiton

Surbiton, AKA the edge of the known universe.

If you haven't been before, it's a sleepy suburb on the outskirts of the capital, home to Kingston University London (KUL) and presumably a lot of students who are wondering why the big city doesn't look quite like it does in the movies. It's not a bad place, necessarily, just an in-between place. Not totally somewhere, not totally nowhere.

We were invited by four very polite international students currently studying at KUL, who emailed to tell me they were having a tropical-themed "beach party". Their message was full of smiley faces and promised "good vibes and even a DJ".

You had me at "beach party in Surbiton", to be honest.

A new-build, complete with driveway, double-glazing and conservatory – nightlife as designed by Barratt Homes.

Do you remember your first house party? The wild energy hurrying through your body as you swung a plastic bag of booze like a kettle-bell beside your thigh; the otherworldly buzz of a back garden full of strangers caught under a security light, a normally boring patch of grass turned into the centre of the universe; every room a different chamber of weed clouds, Fosters and eye-wateringly sincere chats about music. They never quite reach those dizzy heights again.

However, stepping into this small suburban house in Surbiton came close. Despite everyone being university students, there was a distinct sixth-form charm to proceedings – probably enhanced by the house itself, which looked like the amalgamation of every boring, laminated-floored, middle-of-the-road property you slunk back to after school to play Fifa in your blazer. Everyone at the party seemed like they actually wanted to be there, something that trails off past the age of 25.

We were greeted by our hosts, who welcomed us in, offered us something to drink and even suggested they could make us a sandwich. Booze-filled punch-bowls cluttered the kitchen and makeshift decorations were sliding down the walls. There was a tube of Pringles for every emptied tinny. People were making friends, laughing, enjoying each other's company and generally having far too much fun.

The lack of existential dread was disturbing.

The main room was – and it's rare you get to say this – the conservatory. At no point during the night was it anywhere close to empty. With the DJ backed up against the wall, they had turned the alcove into a double-glazing commercial directed by Harmony Korine.

We went in search of the mythical drugs room, but couldn't really find it. Most bedrooms were out of bounds – the signature move of organised party-planners who want good vibes but no powder streaks on their textbooks. As there is at every party, there was the dimly lit "chill-out" (read: whitey) room, the one you enter before immediately feeling like the air is a thousand times thicker than anywhere else in the house, and then leaving. In this case it was a pokey bedroom upstairs, completely filled with a double-bed and a little crew who were rolling around in the bedsheets and shooting Instagram stories.

A healthy 80 people, I reckon. About the right amount for a house that essentially looked like the property your parents downsize into once you and your brother have moved out.

You can tell a lot about a party by the state of the toilet. In this case: mild distress. The bath mat was a bit squiffy. One of those.

Fancy dress is a funny one, isn't it? I'm pretty sure nobody every really enjoys it, but at the same time nobody wants to say that and immediately be labelled the moody prick who "hates fun". So, every so often, somebody cajoles us into agreeing to it, and we all trundle to a pound store to buy eye-patches and cat ears and Austin Powers ruffs, in the hope that maybe this party will be one to remember if somebody is in a morph-suit.

In this case, the beach-party theme had basically resulted in a bunch of 20-year-olds huffing fags in the drizzle, with Hawaiian flower garlands round their necks.

MDMA can look very different depending on who's taking it, whether it's a shiny-shoed city boy stepping out for his first elrow of the summer, or the VHS-burnt skull of a Fantazia madhead from 1991. Sticking to the My First Party vibe in Surbiton, the crystals gave the night a wide-eyed wonder, a bit like everyone had drunk lots of fizzy drinks and been allowed to stay up past 11. One of the hosts assured us only 20 percent of the guests were on drugs, but given how many people enthusiastically patted us on the back and asked "you alright?" with the burning intensity of a thousand suns in their eyes, we'd have to respectfully disagree.

Every party has a couple of big names. The characters everyone spends half the night asking if you've met. In this case it was two lads who had come wearing turn of the century bathing suits and flip-flops. The costumes had clearly instilled in them the need to perform, as they seemed to spend most of the evening wrestling each other. Despite their distinct "stag-do you end up camped next to at a music festival" vibe, they were a definite hit, earning at least 50,000 high-fives.

In keeping with the tropical theme, tables were littered with the exotic flavours of Strongbow Dark Fruit, Buckfast and Echo Falls.

The double-blazing crew were holding it down in the conservatory, with three keen selectors working through some admirably well-paced sets. That said, in keeping with the "something for everyone" approach, Full Vibes were only reached when the DJ started working through "the hits" – taking in everything from Jamie xx through to Daft Punk. A small cluster of hype-men shot gun-fingers and recorded everything for posterity, including a very big Mousse T drop, which, as you can imagine, went off.

Outside we met a student from Lebanon who was stepping up to do a set later in the night. He told us that Surbiton's nightlife was pretty much non-existent, so along with a couple of friends he was planning on starting a techno night of his own. According to him, house parties were pretty much the only option for anyone under-25 who didn't want to listen to Jonas Blue in an air-conditioned super-club. It was a reminder of the ways in which house parties can be unexpected incubators.

Pretty much everyone at this party was an international student, so "where are you from?" was 100 percent the biggest talking point of the night. Take, for example, this failed chirpse we overheard:

"Guess where I'm from!"
"Russia?"
"Nope."
"Switzerland?"
"Nope."
"America?"
"NYC baby!"
"Oh."

If the words "NYC baby" can't get you laid, then I don't know what can.

The garden of any house party is an underserved arena. It's there, in the damp cold darkness, that every Superdry-wearing first-timer hides out, chuckling nervously from the shadows every time he sees somebody doing drugs. It's where the real Brexit chat goes down, where the screaming couples sit on crumbling walls breaking up, and where this party was no different. The yard was a marshy, muddy territory. Trainers were ruined, copious rollies were torn and twisted into the grass, and two nice Irish lads chatted to us about Ireland.

It was also out here, in the garden, that you got a real measure for what this particular house party meant. If you're a student living in a cropped, nondescript suburb like Surbiton – nothing against nondescript places; I grew up somewhere nondescript – then a two-up, two-down sesh, however modest, can be considered a small miracle. The frosted windows filled with yellow light, the speakers sending shockwaves through the pond: when the kicks are few and far between, the ordinary can take on a life of its own.

According to our friendly host, the last guests slipped out at around 5 or 6AM, but she was asleep by then anyway so barely heard them leave. Apparently her friend's grandparents brought round a special sort of hoover the next day to help clean the mud from the stairs, which is sensible – nobody wants to lose their deposit.

She also told me she went out with her housemates last weekend and apparently everyone is still talking about it. "Everyone says it was the best party ever." Consider my faith in the living-room rave restored.

@a_n_g_u_s

Want us to review your house party? Email angus.harrison@vice.com