There can be fewer experiences so stressful in life as a children’s birthday party for 30 kids.

This is actually a medical fact as far as I am aware. Along with the advice given to those of a weak cardiac disposition to avoid smoking, excess alcohol and a diet high in saturated fat, should also be the warning that partaking in a two-hour sugar fuelled session of mayhem with children of pretty much any age is almost guaranteed to shorten your life.

With children aged 10, seven and six, I have been chief organiser of 23 such experiences not including the many hundred that I've been a less than willing participant in.

For anyone without children, the format is fairly similar for each gathering. The invite arrives. The amount of notice given for the party is directly proportional to the levels of enthusiasm of the respective mother, and also usually relates to birth order. First born children usually have hand printed invites sent out at least two months in advance. In my own experience, the last borns invites are sent by text message the night before the party.

There is a degree of hierarchical posturing as to the theme and main event of the party. No longer do parents seem happy to bung a few chairs in the middle of the room and play musical chairs. Unless you have enlisted a celebrity party entertainer, your child will be consigned to playground obscurity.

I have long held the belief that there is something a little strange about children’s entertainers, particularly when they stay in character when dealing with the parents. I once made a phone call to an entertainer called Fred in the Shed. His voicemail message was: ‘Hi, It’s Fred in the Shed, I’m sorry I can’t take your call, it’s because I’m in my shed.’ I resisted the temptation to leave a massage: ‘Your grown up big boy’s name is Darren, granted, not much rhymes with that, but get real, in your shed? Really?’ I have taken my children to a whole host of over the top children’s parties. Go karting at age five, skiing, sports parties hosted by England internationals, and recently a party hosted by a poor bloke who came dressed as a knight in a suit of armour.

I have failed to provide such extravagant delights for my lot.

The best party we’ve had was taking a bunch of nine year olds into our local woods, letting them run wild and then letting them cook on a campfire.

The adage, less is more, was never so apt. It was a tough lesson to learn, though.

No matter how many hours of planning you put into a kids’ party they will not thank you for it as much as they should.

There is no amount of money that can be thrown at the problem that will give you guaranteed success.

There will always be a child in tears within 10 minutes of the start – more often the birthday child.

There is always a smart arse child who back chats the entertainer and knows how the tricks are done.

You will never avoid the child who announces they have a wheat/nut/dairy allergy or can only eat sandwiches shaped in equilateral triangles with the crusts cut off.

There are often several over protective parents who won’t leave their offspring unattended which means that you are forced to control your urge to scream and poke the eyes out of the afore-mentioned children.

The birthday candles will probably be blown out not by the birthday child, but the child with ADHD who is tasting sugar for the first time. Don’t even get me started on party bags.

Cynicism aside, we subject ourselves to these hideous events through love for our children.

The look on a child’s face when they realise they have 30 presents to massacre is priceless. I’m sure there will be a time when my 18-year-old son is lying face down in a pool of vomit after a raucous birthday celebration that I will long for the innocence of a rabbit magicked out of a hat.

Until then, my advice to anyone organising a birthday party for smallies is an IV drip containing white wine.