When you're 19, the world is your oyster and you have more friends than Mark Zuckerberg and MySpace Tom put together.

Except for me. Eight years ago when I was 19, I hardly had anyone who would call me their friend. Sniff sniff. This hit home the hardest at my 19th birthday party, to which no-one came. Unless you include myself. If you do that, then one person came. Hurray!

It wasn't that I lacked invitees. I'd invited all my flatmates, course buddies, and even some homeless people off the street. At one point I promised a girl that my party would be "one big orgy", to which she laughed nervously and made a mental note never to talk to me again. Everyone was reluctant to come. Yet I thought at least some people would turn up, if only out of pity.

Actually, in my mind's eye, I was going to be surrounded by friends, drinking champagne from a hooker's tits before being lifted up by my friends for a rally of "Who's a jolly good fellow?", as supermodels smiled seductively at me and I gave a drunken speech about how great I was. That's how it was supposed to be.

But nothing could have been further from my imagination, because on the big night, no-one came. Well, technically, that's a lie. Lots of people did come - but only because my party venue was actually just a club, which was of course open to the public and strangers.

So I hung around awkwardly for a few hours, clutching my drink and trying not to look too miserable. Eventually, one of my flatmates did come, but only because she was going to the club anyway. She asked where all my friends were.

"No-one came," I said.

"Don't worry," she replied, "You can hang out with me and my friends". Then she promptly disappeared, and all her friends with her.

Desperate to have a good time, I subjected my body to as much alcohol as possible. FUCK YOU LIVER, I cried. IT'S MY PARTY, I CAN GET WASTED AND HAVE MY STOMACH PUMPED IF I WANT TO! I ended up talking to an old man outside the club, telling him he should hang around with people with his own age (he was probably only in his 30s), and then I found myself in an improbably late-open pub until 6am. I stood alone by the wall, stony-faced and devoid of any emotion, inward or outward. But at least I'd beaten my drinking record: 13 pints!

On the way home I unsuccessfully tried to steal a concrete flower pot, which probably weighed five times as much as I did. I managed to drag it zero inches before I gave up, then I settled for a traffic cone instead. DEM CRAZY TEENAGE DAYS.