Let's hear it for the gatecrashers. Nothing amused me more last week than the photos that appeared on Facebook, and then on American news networks, and subsequently in international press, of the brass-necked couple Tareq and Michaele Salahi, who managed to wrangle themselves into Barack Obama's state dinner at the White House in honour of Indian prime minister Manmohan Singh.

The Salahis, dressed to pretend (he in a tux, she in a slick and modern Indian dress), waltzed into the White House bash presumably with the old favourite "there must be some mix-up on the guest list" line, and spent the night hobnobbing with vice-president Joe Biden, chief of staff Rahm Emmanuel and CBS news anchor Katie Couric. Rather cleverly, they didn't actually sit down to dinner (just as well, considering there was obviously no place set for them) and instead partied the evening away and uploaded the pictures when they got home, with excellently delusional captions including, "Honoured to be at the White House for the state dinner in honour of India with President Obama and our First Lady!" Brilliant!"

Gate-crashing parties is as old as parties themselves, and is a delightful sport. There's nothing better than being somewhere fabulous you really shouldn't be, but crashing a do in the White House sets the ligger's bar to an all-time high. A friend of mine seeded the art of gatecrashing in my mind years ago with the immortal line "there's always a blag" when I couldn't get a ticket to a sold-out gig. My blagging (the difference between blagging and crashing: crashing is gaining uninvited access, blagging is gaining an invite you probably shouldn't have) career started as a teen, beginning with crashing a staff party my friends and I stumbled upon, conning our way in upon hearing about a free bar at a bankers' booze-up. Introducing myself as "Una from upstairs" we gained access, and were only thrown out after getting rat-arsed and too involved in our fake banking careers by obnoxiously yelling "I need more coin bags" at some pour soul from accounts.

Since I find it almost impossible to say no to a dare or a bet from giddy mates, chancing my arm has continued over the years, leading me to snagging lifts on tour buses and hoodwinking VIP access at several locations internationally, my favourite being – egged on by a friend – convincing the hostess of a swanky bar in New York that I was the DJ for the night, and proceeding to play the worst set in history before I was booted off after 15 minutes. I also once managed to lay claim to an entire VIP area at Mahiki in Mayfair before the real person who booked it came along. My apologies, Kelly Osbourne. I find acting indignantly works pretty well. Convincing a hotel receptionist that she screwed up my booking recently netted me a free upgrade to a giant six-room suite at Chateau Marmont in LA. Insert evil laugh here. Of course, all of these incidents paint the picture of a tipsy chancer with delusions of grandeur, which is probably about right.

There's a key difference, though, between blaggers and the Salahis. You must treat gate-crashing and blagging with an unrelenting lack of seriousness. I have no time for people who actually think it's cool to be in a VIP area, because blagging and crashing is about pushing limits, not about just gaining access. It shouldn't be about wanting to be in the company of the people who are allowed in, it should be about acting the maggot, and trying to get away with as much as possible before you're found out.

Gaining access to places you should be, or indeed to information you shouldn't have, is after all part of a journalist's modus operandi, and lying about why you should be behind a velvet rope should just be about mooching free stuff, not hanging with the élite. If you are an idiot in front of the velvet rope, you're going to be an idiot behind it, and no access-all-areas stamped laminate is going to change that. In other words, gate-crashing can't be sad, it has to be subversive. Unfortunately for those who thought the Salahis are party anarchists, it was rather deflating to find out that they are in fact "aspiring reality TV stars". I never thought one could be an "aspiring reality star", but apparently that's a new career option out in Washington DC.

Unfortunately for 'aspiring Irish gate-crashers', the majority of 'social' events, launches or VIP gatherings here are mind-numbingly boring and consist of little more than a bunch of self-important half-somebodies glancing over each other's shoulders, bad music, ligging journalists who are almost always exclusively there for either a friend, food, or booze, and a couple of stressed PR organisers who keep telling each other what a great night it is. Occasionally they're fun, but generally only if you're there with enough buddies to section yourself off into an invisible fort and ignore the rest of the losers floating around. The best parties happen behind closed doors, not behind velvet ropes.

umullally@tribune.ie