They say that no one knows how to party like the Americans - but that's not totally true. Last time I went to a party in America, it was for the MTV Awards in an “edgy”, overcrowded warehouse “downtown” (I don't know what either of those words mean), and Prince played a rambling funk work-out that seemed to last approximately half my life; in a bad way.

I found American partying to be very much like the origins of the Universe (quite sweaty, fundamentally inhospitable to human beings, absolutely no one playing the four-minute radio version of Alphabet Street). Additionally, the free chocolates were Hershey's Kisses, which are not chocolate at all, but a lie. I have had better parties on my own, in bed, drinking soup. Americans are not, contrary to what they would like to believe, infallible party-throwers.

They also say that there cannot be a person in the world who does not know that, tomorrow, Barack Obama will become President of the United States of America, and just what a significant fact that is - but then, that's not totally true, either. Christmas Day lunch in our house kicked off with my sister Col asking: “So, did that Eric Obama win it, then?”

Still, nonetheless, there are no two ways about it - tomorrow's inauguration party will be a) one of the most important and b) at $42 million (£28 million), one of the most expensive parties ever thrown. And so it should be. Most parties are held to celebrate getting a year older, or to publicise the opening of a useless art gallery for posh people in Mayfair. Eric Obama is about to celebrate gaining access to enough nuclear warheads to ricochet the Earth into the Sun. Of course the party has to be amazing.

The good news for Obama is that recent history doesn't give him much to contend with. George W. Bush's two inauguration celebrations, in 2001 and 2005, were working exercises in reminding you that pretty much every halfway decent musician is a pinko lefty liberal bleeding-heart commie bastard. Not to put too fine a point on it, no one turned up. Bush was left having to pretend that his ultimate party dream-team consisted of Macy Gray, Lyle Lovett, Asleep At The Wheel and ZZ Top. Even Bush - often aware of little more than the movement of his own eyebrows and the latter stages of extreme thirst - seemed chastened by the poor turnout.

“We are now a country at war,” he said at the time, presumably trying to infer that Aretha Franklin, Bob Dylan, Diana Ross, Barbra Streisand, Elton John, Fleetwood Mac and Chuck Berry - who had played at Bill Clinton's inauguration - subsequently received their call-up papers and were engaged in digging latrines in Afghanistan.

So Obama's not going to have to do much to look like the King of the Par-tay - Barack'n'roll. He's got Bruce Springsteen, Beyoncé, Mary J. Blige, Stevie Wonder and Shakira. Given that Bob, Diana, Chuck and Elton all died on the front lines, Fleetwood Mac are M.I.A. and Barbra is in a prisoner of war camp, being tortured for the exact whereabouts of Barry Gibb, that's not a bad line-up.

But on the other hand, being the first African-American President brings certain expectations. Let's face it, there is a dim part of our minds, raised by Hollywood, that craves the sight of a newly elected black President celebrating his inauguration by ordering in soul food, cranking up the Commodores' Brick House and shouting “Get on down. And that's an order!” at an uptight, white Chief of Staff. And then the Chief of Staff moonwalking over to the head of the CIA - who would be standing at the back, looking impassive in sunglasses - and doing that thing where you touch someone with your finger and pass on the funk, so that the head of the CIA has to immediately start body-popping in front of the world's press.

The fact that Obama is probably planning merely to nod his head to Mary J. Blige, while sipping a flinty 2001 Viognier, will make for a crushing reality-check, when the time comes. We will all have to just grow up a bit.

Although, to be fair, we would be having exactly the same problems had Hillary Clinton been elected, instead. There is a fairly well-established template for how uptight Baby Boomer women party, once they've had a few drinks: on the dancefloor, shoes in hand, crying hysterically while miming the words to I Will Survive. If Hillary hadn't finished her inauguration party standing on a chair in ripped tights, howling “DJUTHNK I'D CRUMBLE? DJUTHNKI'D LAY DANUNDIE?” at Bill, and then blearily asking Curtis Stigers if he thinks she's still “got it”, we would all have felt a little deflated.

So yes. Obama's inaugration party, while not amazing, looks like it will be a fairly creditable effort, notwithstanding just how Beyoncé will be able to “be Beyoncé” - ie, vibrate a magnificent pair of oiled, Amazonian thighs while whooping “What-ho what-ho what-ho!” - in the predicted January temperatures of 0C.

But ultimately it's a world away from the first inauguration ceremonies, back in the early days of America's existence. The inaugural inaugurations, if you like. For his second inauguration, in 1829, Andrew Jackson didn't have a ball but opened the White House to the public instead. Thousands of people turned up and trashed the place - as if Jackson were a teenager, the White House belonged to his parents, who were away for the weekend, and he had ill-advisedly announced on Facebook that he'd just been made President.

And, in 1881, James Garfield's main entertainment for his inauguration was a brass band called Haverly's European Mastodon Minstrels. So was pop music back then all about EU dinosaurs on tubas?

O America! With your live HBO broadcasts and Stevie Wonder medleys, how far your partying ability has come!

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