The guests:

• Stephen Fry for his wit and conversation
• John Waters, because he's crazy
• Loulou de la Falaise, she's beautiful
• Owen Pallett and his boyfriend, they're cute
• Virginia Woolf to meet the obligatory dead literary type requirement
• Ousmane Sembène, so I may absorb his genius
• Rainer Werner Fassbinder for the drama!
• Leonard Cohen, his voice is so dark and baritone now
• Biz Markie, for the big laughs and hijinks. I I saw him the other day on Yo Gabba Gabba! and he was so funny
• Angela Carter, because she's one of my favorite writers at the moment
• Suzanne Valadon, because I enjoy her art
• David Byrne, because he's fuckin amazing
• Aleister Crowley, here be monsters! He's so horrid and he'd probably hate me, but his presence would bring the lulz, and he'd most likely come bearing drugs!
• Harry Belafonte, because he's so incredibly handsome and intelligent, but also to find out why he wrote the banana song and to talk about Beat Street
• Aubrey Beardsley, because I enjoy his art and I would tell him that everything is going to be OK...
• Robert de Montesquiou, because we'd need the presence of my favorite dandy

I will have rented the Petit Trianon at Versailles (indefinitely) for my grand fête and I will have dozens of peafowl imported from India and they will be lounging by the side of the lake.

The menu: Very French, of course

• first course
  • fried oysters with fennel and lime (Chamonix sauvignon blanc)
  • aubergine caviar
• second course
  • soupe Vichyssoise (cold leek and potato)
  • endive salad with Roquefort and toasted walnut vinaigrette
• third course
  • côte de boeuf (Châteauneuf du Pâpe)
  • cassoulet of root vegetables (Château de Beaucastel)
• fourth course
  • Grand Marnier soufflé
  • terrine of dark chocolate with crème anglaise (Lusteau Deluxe Cream Sherry)
  • a glass of Château d’Yquem 1996 for everyone!
• We'd have espressos, Gitanes, and the digestifs (Taylor 1963 port and super-premium cognac) by the side of the lake, opposite peafowl.

Jacques Pépin would do all the cooking for me, but Nigella Lawson would be in charge of the aperitifs, digestifs, and dessert. I'd allow her to stick around, too, just because it's my party and she's so wonderful.

Patrick Wolf would provide the music, but he'd be in his "Careless Talk" crooner mode, so he'd be singing about the "crazy hazy magic position" and love being all "scooby dooby". When he'd get tired, Debussy's Estampes and Six épigraphes antiques would waft out of a beautiful Victrola gramophone. Of course, at this time, the Wolf would be by my side (so John Waters couldn't steal him).

Virginia Woolf would try to drown herself in the lake, but Harry Belafonte would rescue her and they'd end up kissing in the dark, away from the party. By the end of dinner, everyone should be drunk (at least tipsy, Aleister Crowley), and we'd all have a dip in the lake in our dinner things and come out and play tag amidst the peafowl.