Never mind summer lovin', writes Róisín Ingle.
Summer liggin' is where it's really at. I was invited to the opening night of Grease in the Point Depot recently, and as a bonus our free tickets allowed us to mingle with virtually the entire cast of Fair City. I spotted the Celebrity Farm one, the Russian one, the one who had a relationship with her brother and the one who used to go out with a teacher twice her age.
There were Marty Whelan, Larry Gogan and Chris Doran. All the greats. Best of all, the seats were so good we were in spitting distance of Simon Casey, who stole the show singing Beauty School Drop Out, while dancing suggestively in a pair of silver lamé pants.
I wouldn't class myself as a professional in the ligging Olympics, but I am a definitely a hard-working amateur.
These events are better if you bring an "LP", a non-media "Ligging Partner" who can turn even the blandest launch into an enjoyable social event. At Grease, when the star of the show Jonathan Wilkes (a.k.a. Robbie Williams's Best Mate) came near us in the green room, myself and a similarly excitable ligger screamed so much we scared him off. You just wouldn't have the guts to do that on your own.
Lately I've been trying to curb my enthusiasm for ligs, or at least to be more selective about which ones I go to. It's not always easy to say no.
I broke one of my golden ligging rules (never go solo) the other night, when I turned up on my own to the launch party for a dinky new range of phones. It was on my way home and anyway I was hoping that the company might take pity on me and offer to replace the falling-apart phone which I borrowed from the mother when my own phone fell into a foot bath. Don't ask.
After depositing my name and phone number in a raffle to win one of the phones, I spent 10 minutes talking, some might say stalking, the marketing manager who was over from the UK. Accidentally on purpose, I let him glimpse my poor excuse for a 21st-century communications tool. Unfortunately, he didn't bite but after he escaped I did, into some particularly gorgeous fish and chips served in paper cornets, so it wasn't a total waste of time.
Though I don't frequent these events quite as much as I used to, from what I've seen lately they are increasingly elaborate. Once, the most you could hope for was warm wine in a plastic cup and, should you manage to mug a passing waitress as she hovered around the room, you might manage to snaffle a chewy sausage roll. These days you can get dinner, entertainment and as many free cocktails as you can swallow in two-and-a-half hours.
Ligs can be educational too. Once, the makers of a cranberry juice flew a New York barman over to show us how to make the finest cocktails. They can also be great autograph-hunting opportunities. At the unveiling of Louis Le Brocquy's portrait of Bono, my favourite LP got Mr Hewson to draw a self-portrait on her copy of Peter and the Wolf.
The mobile phone press reception had everything a free-loading journalist could hope for and a whole lot more. It was like Fosset's Circus in there - a man on stilts, a live snake, a tarot card reader, a magician, two portrait artists and a jazz band.
Perhaps it started with the Celtic Tiger but Sex And The City definitely consolidated the trend. We had got so used to seeing Carrie and Co at stunning New York launch parties eating canapés that looked like mini works of art that I think it forced PR people here to raise the bar. Literally. We want cute mini-cheeseburgers now, not smoked salmon and cream cheese. We want Cosmos, not cheap red wine. And while, we are, of course deeply interested in the specifications of your all-singing-all-dancing product, we have more pressing questions such as, "excuse me, young lady, but where's my goody bag?"
These days the wine may be sparkling but there will always be something a bit soul-less about these events: corporate types talking about their product while you try to work out whether the free portion of the bar is still in operation.
If you have forgotten to bring an LP, you stand with other journalists in what you hope is an industrious-looking huddle. Some of us are genuinely working, some of us are genuinely in search of a free lunch. But we all adopt the purposeful demeanour that we hope elevates us from the ranks of your common-or-garden ligerati.
I still get a kick from free champagne but it turns out those summer nights were even better fun back when your name wasn't on the door.