Rihanna, Princess Diana and a canal boat in King’s Cross: Grace Campbell’s Fantasy Dinner Party

I love hosting but I’m a terrible host. What I mean is, I love the idea of hosting. I love introducing new friends to old ones in the hope they might get on, or maybe even get it on. I love being able to choose my company, rather than having it thrust upon me.

But technically, I’m a bad host. I’m the kind of host who doesn’t buy the ingredients in time, so orders everyone a Deliveroo. Tonight I’ve tried. I’m hosting my dinner party on a canal boat docked near Granary Square, King’s Cross. I recently walked past this boat and it just looked like a great place to throw a party.

Turns out I’m wrong. Partly because two of my guests are famously tall. Pete Davidson and Princess Diana have arrived first (but not together — I’ve been asked to make that clear by both their PRs, who don’t want anyone thinking, under any circumstances, that anything is happening between them).

I’ve invited them because, well, I want to see if Pete Davidson’s magnetic charm can bag the people’s princess herself. Anyway, they’ve arrived first and it’s a little awkward watching them crouch down to get through the door. I offer them each a spicy margarita. A spicy margarita is my favourite drink; I love tequila and I love chilli. But it’s admittedly a questionable choice to start a dinner party with a princess and an American comedian. Diana accepts the cocktail, Pete declines. Something about his allergies.

As we wait for everyone else, I ask them how they got here. They tell me the boat was hard to find, that it was quite dark walking along the canal. Fuck. I’ve picked such a rogue location.

I realise I haven’t yet offered them a snack, so I bring out some crisps and dip: hummus, guacamole and Kettle Chips. Humble snacks. I drink a spicy margarita too fast and have to rush to the toilet. Then I realise the toilet is blocked. Why have I hosted a dinner party on a boat?

Presently, the boat shakes a little. Someone else has arrived. How will I make sure no one wants to use the toilet for the rest of the evening?

I rush out feeling panicked. It’s Rihanna. Rihanna has arrived, and I’ve got a blocked toilet. She looks unreal. She’s wearing a Fendi suit and she smells unbelievable. This is why I invited her, because I wanted to confirm the rumours that Rihanna smells like an angel.

Rihanna accepts a cocktail right away, and drinks it like someone who appreciates a good spicy margarita. I ask her about the dynamics of her relationship with A$AP Rocky. I am desperate to know if he is threatened by her success.

Behind her, Pete and Diana are talking about the Soho nightclub The Box. Are they . . . flirting?

Then Pete’s competition arrives: Bob Marley, gorgeous as ever, and arguably more of a lover boy than Pete could ever be. I invited Bob because I knew he’d bring a certain prestige to the party. Plus, I wanted to see if I could impress him with my dinner party playlist.

Bob’s infectious energy intimidates Pete immediately, and it’s really fun to watch. While we wait for my final guest, we eat my favourite mac and cheese balls (vegan cheese for Bob) from my local pub in north London, The Stag. Something in the hot sauce they come with is deeply addictive.

Bob offers Pete a spliff. Pete accepts, takes a drag, then coughs immediately. I realise that people have barely eaten. Fuck. I check on the tacos. We’re having two kinds: cod, and mushroom and sweet potato for the vegans. As I’m bringing them out, the boat moves again. My final guest is here. It’s Jennifer Coolidge, most recently of White Lotus fame.

Of everyone at the party, Jennifer is most excited to see Bob. She can’t believe it. She starts singing “No Woman, No Cry” to his face. I’m dying.

But it’s OK, everyone’s here now. I’ve just about started to relax when Pete nervously taps me on the shoulder. “There’s a problem with the toilet.”

Jennifer Coolidge rushes over. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’ Rihanna and Diana look equally peaky

“Oh, yeah. I know,” I say, trying to shrug it off.

“It’s just, those fish tacos have gone right through me,” he replies, “I really need a functional toilet.”

Jennifer Coolidge rushes over. “Grace, where’s the bathroom?” I look over and see Rihanna and Diana looking equally peaky. Fuck. I’ve given everyone food poisoning. Everyone apart from Bob, who, always ahead of the curve, avoided the fish.

Suddenly I feel as though I’m in that scene in Triangle of Sadness where everyone is being sick on the yacht. But we’re on a canal boat in King’s Cross and there’s no toilet. My guests are looking to me for answers, but all I can say is, “Spicy margarita, anyone?”

Grace Campbell is a comedian and writer. She starts a UK tour of her “A Show About Me(n)” next month

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