Why divorce parties have become so popular

Have you been to a “divorce party” yet this season? If you haven’t, not to worry, there’s still time. Divorce season lasts for the whole of January, I’m told, so there’s a couple of weeks left to celebrate. And if perhaps the details of your own nasty separation aren’t yet finalized, or if your lawyer and your ex have between them drained the champagne fund, then why not simply nip into town and crash someone else’s? You’re bound to find one.

Perhaps in the future there will be un-wedding lists, allowing guests to repurchase things the ex took

Divorce parties have become so popular here in London that several of the savvier venues have started to offer special divorce-party deals, just as they do for weddings: balloons, cakes, music. An email last week announced that a club called 100 Wardour St had joined the fun. “A bold new trend is emerging among young Londoners to mark the end of their marriages,” it said. “100 Wardour St is embracing the trend of celebratory break-ups with a vibrant experience.”

I’m cross I didn’t see this coming. Of course divorce is now a cause for unfettered joy. Since Covid, the papers have been full of articles by married women who have “rediscovered themselves” by having an affair. It’s not cheating, it’s following your desires and desires are no longer ever wrong — just so long as you’re female or female-identified.

Take the newly released film Babygirl, which stars Nicole Kidman as a married boss-lady whose affair with a hot young intern liberates her from the tedium of a pleasant marriage. There’s nothing wrong with her husband. He’s a decent, kind, handsome man. They have young children. But Nicole’s character has unfulfilled sexual fantasies, so… sod the marriage, sod the kids.

In July, Hannah Moore wrote a piece for this magazine about the rise of divorce influencers, in which she mentioned the great hardships they imagine women suffer inside a modern marriage. There’s much made in Babygirl of the drudgery of making packed lunches for kids. The camera lingers meaningfully on the lunch bags the boss-lady has prepared, in much the same way as it might rest on a washing tub or a mangle in a documentary about the domestic drudgery of nineteenth century working-class women.

“Divorce, Babe. Divorce.” That’s the top line of 100 Wardour St’s divorce-party press release. It only sounds right if you say it in the voice of Arnie’s Terminator, but what does it mean? Is it an encouragement to shrug off your own boring marriage? I think it might be. The text goes on to explain that both men and women are embracing the “significant cultural shift” in how break-ups are perceived, and 100 Wardour St is keen to help “empower” them.

This is familiar territory. Everything these days is marketed as political activism. Coca-Cola bravely helps fight obesity. The pants I bought the other day declared themselves to be part of a feminist revolution in underwear. 100 Wardour St isn’t flogging champagne, it’s helping men and women shake off the shackles of the tedious commitment they freely chose.

The oppressed deserve to treat themselves after their ordeal, and venues such as 100 Wardour St are here to help. The divorce-party package has in this case been created “in collaboration” with the Hummingbird Bakery, and offers lucky party-goers not only a free bottle of champagne (just quote the code “DIVORCE PARTY”), but a special heart-shaped divorce cake covered in what looks like black icing. Gayle Clutterbuck of the Hummingbird Bakery says: “In the past year, we’ve seen a significant increase in the number of requests for divorce cakes. At the Hummingbird Bakery, we are excited to bring extra joy to these divorce parties. It’s not a proper party without a show-stopping cake.” Absolutely right, Gayle. Bring on the extra joy.

Because it’s still a young industry, it seems to me there’s a sizable gap in the market for more divorce-party merchandise. You can already buy “Just divorced” banners and candles that smell like “freshly signed divorce papers,” but what about tiny boiled-bunny canapés? Or piñatas printed with a photo of your ex’s face? The happy divorcee could beat the piñata until it released a confetti of shredded wedding photos.

Perhaps in the future there will be un-wedding lists in John Lewis, allowing guests to repurchase things the ex took — half a dinner service, one candlestick. There’s certainly an exciting opportunity here for the Church of England, which might welcome a break from fighting over who they can legally marry and move on to divorce. 100 Wardour St could offer it as part of an enhanced party package — a consecrated celebrant to officially lift the patriarchal stigma of marriage. Extra joy.

As I say, I’ve joined this divorce party late, after it’s already in full swing. A piece in Marie Claire magazine in June, which I didn’t read at the time, began: “I’m calling it; this is the era of the loud break-up. Divorced Girl Summer, anyone?” The author found the concept of a divorce party “cheekily alluring” but was anxious that she might be asked to cough up for “divorce presents” having already forked out to buy a wedding gift. It is a real worry. But is it really the very worst thing about an otherwise joyous divorce?

I called the number listed on the “Divorce, Babe. Divorce” press release just to check that it wasn’t satire and spoke to a nice PR girl who promised that divorce parties really are a growing trend, and told me that several of her own friends had already thrown one. What about the kids, do they attend? I asked her. Can they come to stick a knife in a cake iced with a picture of their dad’s face? What’s the protocol? Perhaps it’s best they stay away, said the PR girl, and though her voice faltered a little she managed to stay impressively jaunty.