As one who gave up partying decades ago, the idea of writing about a “party watch” confounds me. But let’s dismiss immediately any thoughts of it meaning Jeremy Corbyn’s wrist attire: he can always borrow our UK Editor’s Chairman Mao watch should he not have a lackey handy to tell him the time. Mrs May should be talking to Chopard or Piaget, while La Sturgeon would probably find an entry-level Swatch suitably populist. I think, though, that on this occasion, Editor Llewellyn means falling-on-your-face-after-a-dozen-Mojitos type of party rather than those of the political variety.
Merely hurling all over one’s wristwatch won’t necessarily kill it, though cleaning flecks of spew out of the crevices in, say, a Navitimer bezel or an engraved tachymeter might require deft use of a toothpick. I have yet to hear of a brand marketing its watches as “barf-proof,” but I suppose a vintage Ikepod, with its nearly seamless case, would be the ultimate choice if this is a recurring threat.
Having seen (in my youth – not of late, I hasten to add) too many people ruin their watches at parties, the events often involved swimming pools. Too many people behave as if they’re auditioning for American Pie 12, or whatever number they’re up to; such celebrators might consider not wearing watches at all. Either that, or something washable. I know of one friend who took a dip, not realising that he had failed to screw down the crown on his white-gold Day-Date. To this day, he still bitches about the cost of the repair.