Kings of the lavish kids" party No losers: Charlie Astor, left, and George Whitefield say fun not competition is at the heart of the typical Sharky & George party It was at Eton that Charlie "Sharky" Astor and George Whitefield got their unexpected break. After playing a prank on their housemaster, the two best friends" punishment was to organise a party for the teacher's six-year-old daughter. So petrified was the girl by the local clown, a fixture on the party circuit, that the 17-year-olds were instructed to devise alternative entertainment. "We were like mischievous older brothers," says Mr Astor, nicknamed Sharky after a children's cartoon and because as a student he sported a fin hairstyle. "Our housemaster asked us to think what games we did when we were young," the 31-year-old adds. So they organised old-fashioned fun such as lifting Smarties chocolates with a straw and grandmother's footsteps. They so enjoyed their punishment that they kept it up, providing parties for family and friends. After graduating from Bristol University, they would sneak out of their offices (Mr Astor worked for a marketing company, and Mr Whitefield a City headhunter) to organise clowns and party bags. After a year of squeezing it in as a sideline, they decided to concentrate on becoming children's party planners full-time. Word of mouth and connections rather than advertising have been key to their expansion (they were in the year below Prince William, whom Mr Astor already knew from prep school). Mr Whitefield notes that as the business has grown they have been able to get "amazing advice from people [they] met through school." Sitting in a café in Battersea, known as Nappy Valley in reference to the invasion by the middle classes with young families, the affable pair, who grin broadly, and have ruffled, unkempt floppy hair and scruffy jumpers, have carved out a niche. This year marked the first time their company, Sharky & George, generated more than £1m in sales. They employ eight people full-time and have 80 freelancers on their books. Today, they organise parties for the rich and famous, who can pay up to £40,000 or £50,000 for a bespoke event. Paul McCartney hired them for his youngest daughter's birthdays. They have also organised parties at Downing Street, including a tug-of-war on the day of the royal wedding. Samantha Cameron, the prime minister's wife, is connected to another branch of the Astor family. Internationally, the party-planning market has become increasingly sophisticated and big-budget. Jen Connor, party planner at the Children's Museum of the Arts in New York, says: "Even since 2009 I've seen parents" [and kids"] expectations change." In that time, she says, the average spend has increased from $700 for a 90-minute party to $1,000. "If only you could see the distressed look in a parent's eyes when a child looks at the goody bag they've been handed and say, "This is it?" . . . Some parents feel [they have] to outdo each other," she says. Mr Astor and Mr Whitefield have organised some pretty impressive mega-parties. One was an Apprentice-style bash that morphed into a rescue mission, flying boys out of school in helicopters, taking them down the river Thames on speedboats and following cars using tracking devices. The showdown was a paintball fight in a south London bunker. Another girl had a weekend that crossed the story of Cinderella with the The X-factor. All partygoers were given makeovers and a DVD of the show. They are doing more and more work in Monaco and Gstaad. They have organised huge treasure hunts in Florence and on the beaches of the south of France. They have diversified into travel by providing "older brothers" who will accompany a family overseas and provide entertainment for the children. Nonetheless, the pair are keen to stress that their bread and butter is more modest entertainment for £360. Many of the simpler parties are held by parents clubbing together and sharing the venue and costs. The recession has made little difference to business, Mr Whitefield says. People tend to protect their children from austerity. There was a drop-off in corporate children's parties but generally we've fared quite well. Despite the elaborate themes of their high-end bashes, the favourites tend to be pirates and princesses, they say. Trends come and go. Harry Potter is not as big as before and they were besides themselves with joy once Korean pop star Psy's Gangnam Style had run its course. The pair insists there is no correlation between the lavishness of the party and the child's behaviour. "You turn up in a smart London address and think these are going to be spoiled children and they are well-behaved," reflects Mr Astor. You go to a less affluent area and they might be the brats. There's no way of categorising the children. Their biggest bugbear is when parents limit their child by characterising them as shy. "I find that frustrating," says Mr Astor. We try to involve them gradually and within three games they're completely involved. The worst-behaved child was one party boy whose mother apologised in advance. Mr Astor reflects: "They were really lovely parents, the oldest and youngest child were really polite. The mum came out and said, "I'm really sorry, my middle child is a nightmare." She wasn't wrong. He kept kicking me in the shins. They are used to meltdowns by birthday boys and girls. "It can be daunting for a young child to have all the attention on them," says Mr Whitefield. It is not their role as party planners to discipline children, he adds. Patience is key to their work, the pair say. As well as retaining a "childish nature," quips Mr Astor. Mr Whitefield reflects on the thrill of his own most memorable childhood party. On his eighth birthday he invited his friends to his family's chocolate factory in Tottenham, north London. The family business, Jameson's, was subsequently sold to Cadbury. But back then Mr Whitefield and his chums were allowed to take sweets off the factory line and fill an ice-cream cup with molten chocolate. His grin broadens at the memory. The growth of their party planning business is not a result of working mothers and fathers outsourcing parenting responsibilities. Mr Whitefield says parents tend to hire Sharky and George after hosting a party the year before and running out of games. They don't want the stress again. They insist that there is little competition between parents over who can put on the best show, though they later list karaoke machines and light sabres as items in some party bags. Ms Connor is more outspoken. Parents have told her that their four-year-old's party had to be "impressive" because their business associates were going to be attending. The parental stress can be severe, she says. I've seen parents who are doctors, lawyers or business executives crumple in distress because they forgot the blow-up animal centrepieces at home, or the pizza is 15 minutes late. You would think their professions equip them to handle stress? Mr Astor and Mr Whitefield believe a party should emphasise fun, not competition. Instead of musical chairs, they have musical yoga mats. Everyone gets a sweet and everybody wins when 30 children squeeze on to the remaining mat. As Mr Astor says: "A party's not the arena to learn about losing."