Christmas 2010.
It was the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring not even a..... well hopefully not even a mouse, as the damn washing machine blew up and there was a whole other world lingering behind it when heaved out of its position in Herculean style. 'More expense' I sighed, which is often the first thing I think of when someone announces they are getting engaged/married, as the likelihood of your Conran pasta dish carefully wrapped pressie being smashed over the spouses head is nigh on predictable these days. Well never mind, Peter Jones will do well out of me for a new washer dryer after six years of non stop action with the previous incarnation. And with that, the door slammed to brave the sub zero temperatures for a trip to Matthew Bourne's revised Cinderella set in the period of the 1940's London Blitz, followed by a Christmas Eve drink at The Savoy.
The cold snap was a topic of conversation for most of December. Why had the bitter winds and snow felled in London and created chaos at Heathrow so early in the winter, when we all know that February and March are usually the cruellest months? Was it indeed a case of global warming and George Monbiot was right all along? Or was it simply just a chilly cold snap and we should be completely unpeturbed by global warming propoganda in the style of the hyped Y2K bug so says Christopher Monckton. Certainly waste, pollution and vast materialism should be questioned throughout the world. It is interesting that the US contribute to huge amounts of methane gas from their cattle in the atmosphere - have you seen the size of their steaks? An average restaurant serving would feed a British family of four for a week. Pollution is at stratospheric levels - just watch the news. Any reporter standing with their microphone with Beijing in the background can hardly see 10 feet behind them for the smog. I know that I can hardly breathe east of Vienna.
However, is it because it is unthinkable and certainly unfashionable to question whether the world is really going through one of its cycles, rather than global warming asuch? There is so much information on the subject and debates which I have been in the audience of, listening to incredibly interesting and intelligent speakers that sitting on the fence isn't such a bad option. Even curvy Nigella's father, Nigel Lawson wrote a book on the subject. In 2008, Lawson published a book expanding on his 2006 lecture to the Centre for Policy Studies, An Appeal to Reason: A Cool Look at Global Warming. He argues the case that, although global warming is happening and will have negative consequences, the impact of these changes will be relatively moderate rather than apocalyptic. He criticises those "alarmist" politicians and scientists who predict catastrophe unless urgent action is taken. The book has, in its turn, been criticised by several climatologists.
The rather fabulous James Lovelock - now a national institution, somebody I share a birthday with and one of Vivienne Westwood's favourites, is best known for proposing the Gaia hypothesis, which postulates that the biosphere is a self-regulating entity with the capacity to keep our planet healthy by controlling the chemical and physical environment. James Delingpole writing in The Telegraph, The Spectator, on his own website & on radio around the world, spends absolute hours on denying climate change and the scientific evidence that proves it. One to keep mulling over I think, however, this is obviously the light-weights answer to a much bigger and not going away question.
So to the January Sales, even though it is not quite January. You know you are getting old when you say that they come around sooner every year. Selfridges on Boxing Day and Peter Jones & Bond Street the following, after a delicious and much civilised lunch with my mother at the Wolseley of course. Needless to say, as it was the first day of sale for the aforementioned stores, they were rammed. We were fashionably kettled by extra security and it was fascinating to see a lot of Chinese and Japanese people in droves buying everything on the rails. In fact, in the drama, I wrestled one to the ground in the 2nd floor Maxmara section of what I thought to be the sole remaining grey coat, until I realised that the woman being assaulted by me was actually three sizes smaller than me and so was the coat!
Good buys: Joseph, Tory Birch (although the New Bond Street shop prices are at higher discounts than in the shop with the yellow bags), DvF and some of the designers in the new shoe hall. It was madness, roped off sections of Jimmy Choo and Gucci with huge queues that I refused to join. A couple of hours of that was enough for any ones nerves and pocket and back to the confines of the apartment with the new washer dryer being delivered at the end of January. In the meantime, am making my own version of Tracey Emin's bed in the corner of the bedroom.
This is the time of year, when newspapers and news programmes look back at who we lost to the spirit in the sky in the past year. The person I am most sad in this world loosing is Sebastian Horsley. Sebastian born in 1962, died in June this year of a heroin and cocaine ovedose which was an accident. Tragically his one-man play, Dandy in the Underworld, to which I took about 8 friends to, opened at the Soho Theatre only one day prior to his death. The role of Horsley (the sole character in the play) was performed by the excellent Milo Twomey, although it would have been the performance of a lifetime if Sebastian had played himself. Some say Sebastian had been very upset of the death of his friend Michael Wojas who had run the Colony Club and who had died of cancer the week before. Two huge Soho losses within a matter of weeks. Soho would never really be the same again.
I had met him numerous times at parties, with his publisher who is a friend of mine and at an intimate soiree at Home House, candle lit with everyone lying decadantly on the comfortable sofas, listening to Sebastian's very clever and filthy mouth. A poem as always about his art, his crucifixion in the Philippines, his drug addiction, sex and his reliance on prostitues. His friend, the journalist Toby Young, said he believed Horsley's death was an accident: "If it had been suicide Sebastian would not have passed up the opportunity to write a note. It's a tragic loss of life." In an interview in April 2008, Horsley romanticised dying "destitute in the arms of a prostitute," though not immediately dying "if that's alright with you."
If you get a chance to read his autobiography, 'Dandy In the Underworld' please do, how can a book not be a masterpiece that begins, 'Hurtling towards the earth, in 1962 I exploded on Hull. I was so appalled I couldn't talk for two years.' He signed my copy with his usual wit: 'Dear Joanna, Well darling, do remember to read with one hand.... I am good between the covers of this book, but better between the sheets. 7 Meard St, Soho. Sebastian xxx' I will treasure my copy implicitly. Or explicitly as he would of course have preferred.
Aside from above, 10 other things I read, did and encountered this week that may be of interest or may be you would prefer me to shut up and you can go back to reading your new Heat magazine:
1. So was Upstairs Downstairs better than Downton Abbey? she doesn't think so: http://www.guardian.co.uk/profile/vivgroskop?INTCMP=SRCH
2. Actor of the year by a mile was Benedict Cumberbatch, one minute Sherlock Holmes the next Vincent van Gogh! have already booked tickets to see him and Jonny Lee Miller at the National in February in Frankenstein - they will alternate the roles of Frankenstein and the creature: http://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/62808/productions/frankenstein.html;
3. Paul the psychic octopus might have died, however, film, book and toy rights are in negotiations, Olympics conversation for the low brow and those just too exhausted after talking of the mertis and work of Ai Weiwei !
4. Kiss my double dip recession - 2011 is going to be made of sterner stuff;
5. However, austerity measures are not all but a distant memory, even in wealthy K&C, there was not a speck of grit in sight during the snow phase, experiencing the spatchcock Coalitions cuts first hand;
6. Watching the UK version of The Social Network - in Old Street - 'Silicon Roundabout', mark my words the future is being built right there;
7. Cherie Blair selling Tony's signature for £10 on e-bay! I queued for Peter Mandelsohn's signature at Hatchards on the 1st day of release of The Third Man, Tony's memoirs were bundled into my Sainsbury's trolley at half price, that's positioning for you;
8. Loving Miranda - the BBC sleeper hit of the year;
9. Not quite understanding the students revolt hysteria, students have always been revolting, nothing can beat The Young Ones;
10. Happy New Year!! Where will you be celebrating? or will you be having an early night.........
Locanda Locatelli, The Special Relationship & X Factor Hysteria...
Mid-December 2010.
Nothing beats the feeling of breezing jauntily past the hassled crowds jangling their Christmas shopping nerves into a state of frenzy, than stepping into the sublime tranquility and elegance of a fabulous restaurant moments before Christmas. And so the hot choice on a freezing day to the wonderful Michelin starred Locanda Locatelli. David Collins designed, Tony Blair's local Italian - he even chose it for his recent interview in Lunch with the FT: http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/52385c1c-bc50-11df-8c02-00144feab49a.html#axzz187WwY2YT
Even AA Gill liked the place which really is in itself a rarity, hardly ever do you see a favourable review from Adrian: http://www.locandalocatelli.com/web/press.aspx It was interesting to see a number of women dining with each other on a Saturday afternoon, which was an interesting dynamic for the restaurant, girl power lunches even at the weekend! Which also proves, how hard we are all still working in these economic times, even in pricey and delicious restaurants.
I mentioned in last week's blog that I would write further on the so called American-Anglo Special Relationship of which so much is written about in the media and whether it does indeed exist. Churchill popped up at the Spectator debate entitled 'America is just not into us - discuss'. James Crabtree, the Financial Times’s comment editor, deplored the way our war leader’s bust had been ‘removed from the White House’ by an incoming Barack Obama. It marked the terminal point in a relationship that once shaped world events. America was looking east. Obama had pledged to run ‘a Pacific presidency’. Crabtree repeated Helmut Schmidt’s gag about our alliance with the Americans, ‘a relationship so special that only one side knows it exists’.
So after what seemed like half a lifetime and excuses why not to go out like normal people on a Saturday night, the X Factor Final came upon us. Was it really worth the wait. Well indeed it was, if only to see Rhianna, Christina Aguilera and Take That completely upstage the contestants during their duets. Poor Matt bit his hand as Rhianna prowled onto the stage and ended with a semi, Rebecca was dumbstruck and stared at the floor, even completely mute at one point, in which was supposed to be a singing competition and One Erection (between the lot of them), sorry One Direction pretended they were best mates with Robbie Williams who was as wired as anyone on 10 double expressos. The only 'star' amongst them was the much maligned Cher Lloyd who took to the stage with Will.i.Am with gusto and was probably the only person who didn't bat an eyelid at his necklace, Will looked liked he had got into a fight with a Nintendo. The daftest thing was that 5,000 people made the effort to call into the show to complain about Rhianna's dancing, when it was hands down, the highlight of the whole series.
People do seem to worry their heads about dancing being obscene. When the most worrying fact of all which puts a bit of raunch completely in the shade, is that the future generation growing up now in the Western World will be many more times obese than their parents, because of the fact that they haven't moved around or danced at all and are only interested in eating and computer games when they are not sleeping. Perhaps Will.i.Am should have a word with them and break up their games and create a whole range of amusing necklaces and Rhianna can teach the kids to join her in some booty and daggering.
Aside from above, 10 other things I read, did and encountered this week that may be of interest or may be you would prefer me to shut up and you can go back to reading your new Heat magazine:
1. Bernie Madoff's final victim, his son: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/financetopics/bernard-madoff/8196670/Bernard-Madoffs-massive-financial-swindle-claims-its-latest-victim-as-his-son-Mark-commits-suicide.html
2. Looking forward to watching the newly dramatic reworked classic Upstairs, Downstairs starting at 9pm Boxing Day;
3. Going a bit crazy on the Net-a-porter and Matches websites, anything to avoid the madding shopping crowds;
4. Great piece in The Observer by Jemima Khan on Julian Assange, very brave of her to put her best foot forward: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/dec/11/julian-assange-jemima-khan
5. Wishing I was at the Marrakech Film Festival escaping the English winter;
6. Loving my new early Christmas pressie from a friend, Dior foundation brush, literally brush your face on every morning;
7. Haven't watched Corrie for a year, however, the tram crash was well worth it, what a drama, best line spoken by Rita: 'What is it with me and trams?';
8. Reading Rachel Johnson's 'A Diary of The Lady', hysterical;
9. Looking forward to watching The Way Back at the Barbican over Chirstmas with Colin Farrell & my favourite Hollywood actor Ed Harris;
10. Following Heston Blumenthal's recipes in the Waitrose Weekend freesheet - Lapsang Souchang Tea Smoked Salmon yum, yum. Think I will give the blow torch on the creme brulee a miss though!
Nothing beats the feeling of breezing jauntily past the hassled crowds jangling their Christmas shopping nerves into a state of frenzy, than stepping into the sublime tranquility and elegance of a fabulous restaurant moments before Christmas. And so the hot choice on a freezing day to the wonderful Michelin starred Locanda Locatelli. David Collins designed, Tony Blair's local Italian - he even chose it for his recent interview in Lunch with the FT: http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/52385c1c-bc50-11df-8c02-00144feab49a.html#axzz187WwY2YT
Even AA Gill liked the place which really is in itself a rarity, hardly ever do you see a favourable review from Adrian: http://www.locandalocatelli.com/web/press.aspx It was interesting to see a number of women dining with each other on a Saturday afternoon, which was an interesting dynamic for the restaurant, girl power lunches even at the weekend! Which also proves, how hard we are all still working in these economic times, even in pricey and delicious restaurants.
I mentioned in last week's blog that I would write further on the so called American-Anglo Special Relationship of which so much is written about in the media and whether it does indeed exist. Churchill popped up at the Spectator debate entitled 'America is just not into us - discuss'. James Crabtree, the Financial Times’s comment editor, deplored the way our war leader’s bust had been ‘removed from the White House’ by an incoming Barack Obama. It marked the terminal point in a relationship that once shaped world events. America was looking east. Obama had pledged to run ‘a Pacific presidency’. Crabtree repeated Helmut Schmidt’s gag about our alliance with the Americans, ‘a relationship so special that only one side knows it exists’.
Nile Gardiner admitted that Obama was no lover of Britain, but he reminded us that the motion refers to America, not to any particular White House inmate, and Obama’s mid-term drubbing had shown how poorly he reflects ‘the spirit and heart of America’. Our friendship was ‘the world’s strongest alliance’. ‘The Germans and French dream of the access we enjoy in Washington.’ America’s interest in Kate and Wills’s engagement, which received blanket TV coverage over there, will remind the world how much they love us.
Hugh Hunter, former British vice-consul in Florida, said the psychological differences between the countries ran deep. Americans were isolationist and profoundly individualistic. ‘How could there be a special relationship?’ he asked.
Gideon Rachman, chief foreign affairs commentator at the Financial Times, likened the relationship to a romance. ‘It’s cyclical. Sometimes it even enters a manic phase. And because it’s an unequal relationship it’s always being examined for signs of decrepitude.’ The alliance thrives in three key areas: we share intelligence, we collaborate within the Security Council, and our soldiers fight side by side in Afghanistan. Rachman admitted that Britain rarely features in American foreign policy documents, but this is because we’re stable, prosperous and friendly; foreign policy must concern itself with dangers.
Mike Gapes, the MP and veteran of the foreign affairs select committee, deplored Britain’s ‘obsession with the length of meetings with American presidents’. True, we have a special relationship with the US but so do Canada, Mexico, Israel, France, Spain, Australia and a dozen others. Optimistically we exaggerate the degree of influence we have over the US while they nurture a hearty contempt for us.
Sir Christopher Meyer, formerly our man in Washington, put us straight on the vanishing Churchill bust. ‘I myself presented the statue to George Bush. It was a loan, not a gift, for the duration of his presidency.’ Obama had quite properly returned it to the British embassy. He disliked the term ‘special relationship’: ‘It’s a normal relationship with extraordinary troughs and peaks.’ Sir Christopher ended by questioning himself in Socratic mode. Is America our most important ally? Yes. Will our interests always converge with theirs? No. Should we stand up for ourselves? Yes. If we do, will the relationship be structurally damaged? No. ‘Mrs Thatcher showed you could have a huge argument [with Reagan] and emerge stronger.’
But his team emerged weaker. The motion was carried with a sizeable swing to the proposition. Which goes to show that the London audience could not be persuaded that the Yanks are really that into us. Perhaps they are more into their Ben & Jerrys.
Hugh Hunter, former British vice-consul in Florida, said the psychological differences between the countries ran deep. Americans were isolationist and profoundly individualistic. ‘How could there be a special relationship?’ he asked.
Gideon Rachman, chief foreign affairs commentator at the Financial Times, likened the relationship to a romance. ‘It’s cyclical. Sometimes it even enters a manic phase. And because it’s an unequal relationship it’s always being examined for signs of decrepitude.’ The alliance thrives in three key areas: we share intelligence, we collaborate within the Security Council, and our soldiers fight side by side in Afghanistan. Rachman admitted that Britain rarely features in American foreign policy documents, but this is because we’re stable, prosperous and friendly; foreign policy must concern itself with dangers.
Mike Gapes, the MP and veteran of the foreign affairs select committee, deplored Britain’s ‘obsession with the length of meetings with American presidents’. True, we have a special relationship with the US but so do Canada, Mexico, Israel, France, Spain, Australia and a dozen others. Optimistically we exaggerate the degree of influence we have over the US while they nurture a hearty contempt for us.
Sir Christopher Meyer, formerly our man in Washington, put us straight on the vanishing Churchill bust. ‘I myself presented the statue to George Bush. It was a loan, not a gift, for the duration of his presidency.’ Obama had quite properly returned it to the British embassy. He disliked the term ‘special relationship’: ‘It’s a normal relationship with extraordinary troughs and peaks.’ Sir Christopher ended by questioning himself in Socratic mode. Is America our most important ally? Yes. Will our interests always converge with theirs? No. Should we stand up for ourselves? Yes. If we do, will the relationship be structurally damaged? No. ‘Mrs Thatcher showed you could have a huge argument [with Reagan] and emerge stronger.’
But his team emerged weaker. The motion was carried with a sizeable swing to the proposition. Which goes to show that the London audience could not be persuaded that the Yanks are really that into us. Perhaps they are more into their Ben & Jerrys.
So after what seemed like half a lifetime and excuses why not to go out like normal people on a Saturday night, the X Factor Final came upon us. Was it really worth the wait. Well indeed it was, if only to see Rhianna, Christina Aguilera and Take That completely upstage the contestants during their duets. Poor Matt bit his hand as Rhianna prowled onto the stage and ended with a semi, Rebecca was dumbstruck and stared at the floor, even completely mute at one point, in which was supposed to be a singing competition and One Erection (between the lot of them), sorry One Direction pretended they were best mates with Robbie Williams who was as wired as anyone on 10 double expressos. The only 'star' amongst them was the much maligned Cher Lloyd who took to the stage with Will.i.Am with gusto and was probably the only person who didn't bat an eyelid at his necklace, Will looked liked he had got into a fight with a Nintendo. The daftest thing was that 5,000 people made the effort to call into the show to complain about Rhianna's dancing, when it was hands down, the highlight of the whole series.
People do seem to worry their heads about dancing being obscene. When the most worrying fact of all which puts a bit of raunch completely in the shade, is that the future generation growing up now in the Western World will be many more times obese than their parents, because of the fact that they haven't moved around or danced at all and are only interested in eating and computer games when they are not sleeping. Perhaps Will.i.Am should have a word with them and break up their games and create a whole range of amusing necklaces and Rhianna can teach the kids to join her in some booty and daggering.
Aside from above, 10 other things I read, did and encountered this week that may be of interest or may be you would prefer me to shut up and you can go back to reading your new Heat magazine:
1. Bernie Madoff's final victim, his son: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/financetopics/bernard-madoff/8196670/Bernard-Madoffs-massive-financial-swindle-claims-its-latest-victim-as-his-son-Mark-commits-suicide.html
2. Looking forward to watching the newly dramatic reworked classic Upstairs, Downstairs starting at 9pm Boxing Day;
3. Going a bit crazy on the Net-a-porter and Matches websites, anything to avoid the madding shopping crowds;
4. Great piece in The Observer by Jemima Khan on Julian Assange, very brave of her to put her best foot forward: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/dec/11/julian-assange-jemima-khan
5. Wishing I was at the Marrakech Film Festival escaping the English winter;
6. Loving my new early Christmas pressie from a friend, Dior foundation brush, literally brush your face on every morning;
7. Haven't watched Corrie for a year, however, the tram crash was well worth it, what a drama, best line spoken by Rita: 'What is it with me and trams?';
8. Reading Rachel Johnson's 'A Diary of The Lady', hysterical;
9. Looking forward to watching The Way Back at the Barbican over Chirstmas with Colin Farrell & my favourite Hollywood actor Ed Harris;
10. Following Heston Blumenthal's recipes in the Waitrose Weekend freesheet - Lapsang Souchang Tea Smoked Salmon yum, yum. Think I will give the blow torch on the creme brulee a miss though!
Wikileaks, Onassis & surviving the rounds of Christmas drinks parties...
Week ending 5th December 2010.
Well what a blast off to the start of the working week. Batman and Robin rule Russia, Gaddafi goes nowhere without a busty Ukrainian nurse at his side, Hilary instructed her US diplomats to spy on the UN, David Cameron was less than impressive to the US (and as someone who did not vote for D.C. that comes as really no surprise), not to mention that we Brits are obsessed with the so called special relationship which is nonsense - more to follow next week, China has developed a rather soft spot for a reunited Korea and Julian Assange can't help tickling young Swedish fillys. Did we not know all this already? The most interesting and outrageous item of all was the full story of Bradley Manning, a US soldier working as an intelligence analyst, who stands accused of downloading vast amounts of classified materials on a CD-RW which he labelled as Lady Gaga. Whilst he listened to the files he would lip-synch to Lady Gaga's Telephone while 'exfiltrating' possibly the largest data spillage in American history.
Whilst the content of the Wikileaks is nothing more outrageous in its tone than someone making quips at an English dinner party or down the pub, we do tend to forget that most of our overseas friends do not share our 'close to the bone' and more often than not, insensitive sense of humour and wit and perhaps once again, the US has snuck an own goal of foot and mouth disease. Of course this would have never happened in previous generations past, when everything was recorded in analogue form - i.e. in writing, on paper, as it would have been too difficult to shift and carry heavy files around without being noticed. That is progress for you. Perhaps Apple will come out with a new wikileaks i-phone already loaded with all our personal gaffs and secrets, not such a ridiculous idea.
Going to the theatre on a Monday night is a bit of a strain, especially in sub-zero temperatures. However, being given tickets to the best seats of the house which would normally cost £85 each was a good enough reason to push on through the more preferable hibernation mode and into the Novello Theatre with a fabulous friend. We watched the fantastic Robert Lindsay starring as Aristotle Onassis. Starting in 1963, and covering the last 12 years of the Greek shipping magnate's life, it shows him to be little more than a boorish megalomaniac. We see him dumping Maria Callas (for whose art he had nothing but disdain - 'opera sounds like a bunch of Italian chefs singing risotto recipes'), for the supposedly more covetable Jackie Kennedy. It's also suggested, in conspiracy theory style, that his dubious financial dealings with shady Palestinians may have paid for the murder of Bobby Kennedy, whom he passionately loathed. The best line in Onassis was one spoken by Jackie Kennedy to the doomed Onassis heir Alexander, 'your father was peanut butter with chocolate and stawberries, they don't make them like like that anymore, the future is vanilla'. Couldn't agree more.
Thank goodness for Robert Lindsay. The play has had mixed reviews, however, the star of My Family and the previously written about Citizen Smith was the absolute star of the show. Well worth watching if you find yourself lost in the Aldwych area for a couple of hours of fun, before or after a dash to the new Beaufort Bar at the Savory - go about 10 minutes before the performance starts and you will be sure to get a good seat for a fantastic price as the theatre was far from full, except for the fact that amongst the half empty seats I spotted an ex! And as much as they were your world at one time, once they have stepped out of it and you genuinely wish them the best, the next time you spy them some years later, you feel quite indifferent to the sighting. In fact, so indifferent, there was no time to pass pleasantries, there was no need. The satisfaction was in knowing that his new beau was more of a Miranda than an Elizabeth Hurley.
The plethora of Christmas parties are in full December swing, sometimes 3 or 4 a night. One can either tackle them head-on in a haze with a full on head ache every night, or somewhat more tempered, deciding which ones to drink at or not, depending on the quality of the liquor flowing, the company, the venue, etc, etc. Luckily so far so good. Even in the depths of the snow and ice last week, I managed to skid down Glebe Place on the Louboutin's at lightning speed aided by holding onto a passing handsome mans arm and traversed into the party grabbing a vino tinto and a salmon blini on the way up the stairs. In the spirit of Christmas and charitable cheer, let's not forget the poor homeless buggers sleeping in their cardboard boxes in awful minus temperatures. I will make an extra effort to dig a bit deeper into the pocket this winter and remember those more unfortunate.
Aside from above, 10 other things I read, did and encountered this week that may be of interest or may be you would prefer me to shut up and you can go back to reading your new Heat magazine:
1. Lunch with the FT: Tamara Mellon - http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/9d821ce2-fe60-11df-845b-00144feab49a.html#axzz17GqypBGG
2. Fabulous cultured pearls and other jewellery by Silvana Monson, a wonderful friend's Brazilian wife;
3. L'Oreal Spray Tan - wake up like you have been in Barbados without the jetlag;
4. Great drinks party with Dubai friends at Ju Ju on the Kings Road - the joint is pumping on a Thursday night and delicious duck spring rolls;
5. Catching up with missed episodes of Any Human Heart - http://www.channel4.com/programmes/any-human-heart;
6. Wrapping Christmas parties whilst blasting out Gil Scott Heron;
7. Booking somewhere hot to double whammy missing Easter and the Royal Wedding;
8. Wondering if the ironing pile procreates like mice and doubles overnight;
9. Reading The Slap on the Kindle for I-phone whilst I still have good eyesight, quite small writing, although very surprisingly clear;
10. Wondering why the oh so cool Black Eyed Peas could sing Dirty Dancing, surely there are other great songwriters in LA who could help them?
Well what a blast off to the start of the working week. Batman and Robin rule Russia, Gaddafi goes nowhere without a busty Ukrainian nurse at his side, Hilary instructed her US diplomats to spy on the UN, David Cameron was less than impressive to the US (and as someone who did not vote for D.C. that comes as really no surprise), not to mention that we Brits are obsessed with the so called special relationship which is nonsense - more to follow next week, China has developed a rather soft spot for a reunited Korea and Julian Assange can't help tickling young Swedish fillys. Did we not know all this already? The most interesting and outrageous item of all was the full story of Bradley Manning, a US soldier working as an intelligence analyst, who stands accused of downloading vast amounts of classified materials on a CD-RW which he labelled as Lady Gaga. Whilst he listened to the files he would lip-synch to Lady Gaga's Telephone while 'exfiltrating' possibly the largest data spillage in American history.
Whilst the content of the Wikileaks is nothing more outrageous in its tone than someone making quips at an English dinner party or down the pub, we do tend to forget that most of our overseas friends do not share our 'close to the bone' and more often than not, insensitive sense of humour and wit and perhaps once again, the US has snuck an own goal of foot and mouth disease. Of course this would have never happened in previous generations past, when everything was recorded in analogue form - i.e. in writing, on paper, as it would have been too difficult to shift and carry heavy files around without being noticed. That is progress for you. Perhaps Apple will come out with a new wikileaks i-phone already loaded with all our personal gaffs and secrets, not such a ridiculous idea.
Going to the theatre on a Monday night is a bit of a strain, especially in sub-zero temperatures. However, being given tickets to the best seats of the house which would normally cost £85 each was a good enough reason to push on through the more preferable hibernation mode and into the Novello Theatre with a fabulous friend. We watched the fantastic Robert Lindsay starring as Aristotle Onassis. Starting in 1963, and covering the last 12 years of the Greek shipping magnate's life, it shows him to be little more than a boorish megalomaniac. We see him dumping Maria Callas (for whose art he had nothing but disdain - 'opera sounds like a bunch of Italian chefs singing risotto recipes'), for the supposedly more covetable Jackie Kennedy. It's also suggested, in conspiracy theory style, that his dubious financial dealings with shady Palestinians may have paid for the murder of Bobby Kennedy, whom he passionately loathed. The best line in Onassis was one spoken by Jackie Kennedy to the doomed Onassis heir Alexander, 'your father was peanut butter with chocolate and stawberries, they don't make them like like that anymore, the future is vanilla'. Couldn't agree more.
Thank goodness for Robert Lindsay. The play has had mixed reviews, however, the star of My Family and the previously written about Citizen Smith was the absolute star of the show. Well worth watching if you find yourself lost in the Aldwych area for a couple of hours of fun, before or after a dash to the new Beaufort Bar at the Savory - go about 10 minutes before the performance starts and you will be sure to get a good seat for a fantastic price as the theatre was far from full, except for the fact that amongst the half empty seats I spotted an ex! And as much as they were your world at one time, once they have stepped out of it and you genuinely wish them the best, the next time you spy them some years later, you feel quite indifferent to the sighting. In fact, so indifferent, there was no time to pass pleasantries, there was no need. The satisfaction was in knowing that his new beau was more of a Miranda than an Elizabeth Hurley.
The plethora of Christmas parties are in full December swing, sometimes 3 or 4 a night. One can either tackle them head-on in a haze with a full on head ache every night, or somewhat more tempered, deciding which ones to drink at or not, depending on the quality of the liquor flowing, the company, the venue, etc, etc. Luckily so far so good. Even in the depths of the snow and ice last week, I managed to skid down Glebe Place on the Louboutin's at lightning speed aided by holding onto a passing handsome mans arm and traversed into the party grabbing a vino tinto and a salmon blini on the way up the stairs. In the spirit of Christmas and charitable cheer, let's not forget the poor homeless buggers sleeping in their cardboard boxes in awful minus temperatures. I will make an extra effort to dig a bit deeper into the pocket this winter and remember those more unfortunate.
Aside from above, 10 other things I read, did and encountered this week that may be of interest or may be you would prefer me to shut up and you can go back to reading your new Heat magazine:
1. Lunch with the FT: Tamara Mellon - http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/9d821ce2-fe60-11df-845b-00144feab49a.html#axzz17GqypBGG
2. Fabulous cultured pearls and other jewellery by Silvana Monson, a wonderful friend's Brazilian wife;
3. L'Oreal Spray Tan - wake up like you have been in Barbados without the jetlag;
4. Great drinks party with Dubai friends at Ju Ju on the Kings Road - the joint is pumping on a Thursday night and delicious duck spring rolls;
5. Catching up with missed episodes of Any Human Heart - http://www.channel4.com/programmes/any-human-heart;
6. Wrapping Christmas parties whilst blasting out Gil Scott Heron;
7. Booking somewhere hot to double whammy missing Easter and the Royal Wedding;
8. Wondering if the ironing pile procreates like mice and doubles overnight;
9. Reading The Slap on the Kindle for I-phone whilst I still have good eyesight, quite small writing, although very surprisingly clear;
10. Wondering why the oh so cool Black Eyed Peas could sing Dirty Dancing, surely there are other great songwriters in LA who could help them?
The Office Christmas Party, The Wolseley and Holland & Barrett....
Week ending 28th November 2010.
Music is always important to blast whilst blogging. Currently Depeche Mode's greatest hits on the ghetto - back to many years of teenage excitement. Often newer cool stuff, Patrick Wolf - the genius, M.I.A. Muse, Tinie Tempah or the fabulous Lady Gaga. Certainly not Justin Beiber - who the hell is he anyway? Am embarrassed not to be 'down with the kids' on this one, especially as JB is the most googled, tweeted of them all, alas he has completely passed me by until I've just seen the paedos favourite pop star looking like a teenage lesbian on X Factor. Other favourites, Classical if in the mood, Faure & Mozart's Requiems a favourite and the BBC iplayer a terrific invention to catch up on missed programmes, radio - especially The Archers omnibus, Desert Island Discs and Private Passions - all great whilst in the kitchen cooking.
Whilst you are turning your much loved pasta supper dish into something Locanda Locatelli would be proud of, check out the brilliant and talented Polly Samson whilst you are washing up or pottering paying yet more bills: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00w15ys/Twenty_Minutes_Barcarolle Polly tweeted me to say that she thought that Rory Kinnear was overdoing it rather, turning her lovely Anna into Widow Twanky. However, he is currently at The National giving it all for Hamlet so maybe he was on a Shakespearean theme and decided to give reading this short story from her collection Perfect Lives a bit of extra welly.
Surviving the annual company Christmas party is an act of endurance in itself. I do wonder if it was indeed an act of genius, a special austerity gesture with an extra nod to our chums over the choppy Irish sea or more possibly the administration of general company chaos, that it would befall itself in the middle of November?! An opportunity to dance around with a non vintage glass of something in ones hand and shake a leg with the entourage of London sales people giving it their all as though dancing to close the deal of the century.
And so to Picadilly on a frightfully cold morning to check-in to The Wolseley for mid-week breakfast. For a person tied to the SW's for most of the working week, it was such a treat to escape on a day off to breakfast at the wonderful Venetian and Florentine inspired space that was in its previous incarnation in 1921, the Wolseley Motors car showroom. The Wolseley cars were displayed on the marble floor and cost between £225-£1,300. Unfortunately, the cars did not sell well enough and by 1926 the company was bankrupt.
It was the first time I had power breakfasted there a la AA Gill, usually limiting to meet friends for brunch, lunch or dinner at weekends after or before a trip to Dover Street Market (Rose Bakery cafe on the top floor great for afternoon tea and a sit down) or an exhibition at The Royal Academy - note to self haven't been there for a while can't remember what is on currently. Absolutely packed cheek to jowl, with Nigella enjoying TWO boiled eggs and soldiers in the Salon part of the restaurant with a girlfriend and the chap who sorry can't remember his name, but the one with less hair from Masterchef, having a pow wow with male friends close to the entrance. It was a fun atmosphere, close to being my favourite breakfast/brunch place in London (pipped by Bistrotheque my ultimate favourite it has to be said) and just the thing in sub zero temperatures and biting wind to fortitude ourselves before Christmas shopping in Burlington Arcade.
So onto something rather less salubrious and that I could not quite comprehend and keep thinking about with wonder. Going to the local newly refurbished mall is one of life's musts now and again to find out what people are reading, wearing and buying. I couldn't believe my eyes as I walked to the till of Holland & Barrett with two slightly guilty yoghurt topped flapjacks and a host of vitamins that would make a hippo rattle. Well hippos it certainly was at the till. As helpful and jolly as they were, the two ladies behind the till of the well known health shop were unbelievably MORBIDLY obsese. Not just a bit chubby or having a tight waistband kind of day, but absolute mighty whoppers of the human specimen variety. I did think that whilst everyone needs and should be motivated to get a job, any job in fact in these economic times, perhaps the company should employ people that fits in slightly better with their own culture and mission statement? I left feeling rather less gluttonous than the jolly green aproned giants, until I bit into my flapjack with ecstasy and hopped into Waitrose for more treats.
Aside from above, 10 other things I read, did and encountered this week that may be of interest or may be you would prefer me to shut up and go back to reading your new Heat magazine:
1. Promise am only going to mention the Jungle fools once, worth reading:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/lostinshowbiz/2010/nov/26/gillian-mckeith-im-a-celebrity;
2. John Galliano Christmas Tree in the Claridges foyer;
3. Nicky Haslam singing Cole Porter at the stunning black and gold newly opened Beaufort Bar at The Savoy;
4. The Spectator Debate Series: America is just not into us at the Royal Geographical Society, RGS;
5. http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00wkjcr/The_Andrew_Marr_Show_28_11_2010/ 33 mins in see the fabulous Charlotte Rampling;
6. http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2010/nov/26/kate-middleton-conservative-style - Suzanne Moore's new column;
7. Jonathan Franzen - Freedom - first edition, with all the mistakes - collectors item via Amazon;
8. Booking Intelligence Squared new Spring Season debates - If you want fidelity - buy a dog;
9. The Wallace Collection - twice! for tea & scones with friends;
10. Selfridges, I know each and every one of your departments intimately, you have taken all my money and all I can think of is that at least I have finished the dreaded Christmas shopping before the 1st December.
Music is always important to blast whilst blogging. Currently Depeche Mode's greatest hits on the ghetto - back to many years of teenage excitement. Often newer cool stuff, Patrick Wolf - the genius, M.I.A. Muse, Tinie Tempah or the fabulous Lady Gaga. Certainly not Justin Beiber - who the hell is he anyway? Am embarrassed not to be 'down with the kids' on this one, especially as JB is the most googled, tweeted of them all, alas he has completely passed me by until I've just seen the paedos favourite pop star looking like a teenage lesbian on X Factor. Other favourites, Classical if in the mood, Faure & Mozart's Requiems a favourite and the BBC iplayer a terrific invention to catch up on missed programmes, radio - especially The Archers omnibus, Desert Island Discs and Private Passions - all great whilst in the kitchen cooking.
Whilst you are turning your much loved pasta supper dish into something Locanda Locatelli would be proud of, check out the brilliant and talented Polly Samson whilst you are washing up or pottering paying yet more bills: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00w15ys/Twenty_Minutes_Barcarolle Polly tweeted me to say that she thought that Rory Kinnear was overdoing it rather, turning her lovely Anna into Widow Twanky. However, he is currently at The National giving it all for Hamlet so maybe he was on a Shakespearean theme and decided to give reading this short story from her collection Perfect Lives a bit of extra welly.
Surviving the annual company Christmas party is an act of endurance in itself. I do wonder if it was indeed an act of genius, a special austerity gesture with an extra nod to our chums over the choppy Irish sea or more possibly the administration of general company chaos, that it would befall itself in the middle of November?! An opportunity to dance around with a non vintage glass of something in ones hand and shake a leg with the entourage of London sales people giving it their all as though dancing to close the deal of the century.
And so to Picadilly on a frightfully cold morning to check-in to The Wolseley for mid-week breakfast. For a person tied to the SW's for most of the working week, it was such a treat to escape on a day off to breakfast at the wonderful Venetian and Florentine inspired space that was in its previous incarnation in 1921, the Wolseley Motors car showroom. The Wolseley cars were displayed on the marble floor and cost between £225-£1,300. Unfortunately, the cars did not sell well enough and by 1926 the company was bankrupt.
It was the first time I had power breakfasted there a la AA Gill, usually limiting to meet friends for brunch, lunch or dinner at weekends after or before a trip to Dover Street Market (Rose Bakery cafe on the top floor great for afternoon tea and a sit down) or an exhibition at The Royal Academy - note to self haven't been there for a while can't remember what is on currently. Absolutely packed cheek to jowl, with Nigella enjoying TWO boiled eggs and soldiers in the Salon part of the restaurant with a girlfriend and the chap who sorry can't remember his name, but the one with less hair from Masterchef, having a pow wow with male friends close to the entrance. It was a fun atmosphere, close to being my favourite breakfast/brunch place in London (pipped by Bistrotheque my ultimate favourite it has to be said) and just the thing in sub zero temperatures and biting wind to fortitude ourselves before Christmas shopping in Burlington Arcade.
So onto something rather less salubrious and that I could not quite comprehend and keep thinking about with wonder. Going to the local newly refurbished mall is one of life's musts now and again to find out what people are reading, wearing and buying. I couldn't believe my eyes as I walked to the till of Holland & Barrett with two slightly guilty yoghurt topped flapjacks and a host of vitamins that would make a hippo rattle. Well hippos it certainly was at the till. As helpful and jolly as they were, the two ladies behind the till of the well known health shop were unbelievably MORBIDLY obsese. Not just a bit chubby or having a tight waistband kind of day, but absolute mighty whoppers of the human specimen variety. I did think that whilst everyone needs and should be motivated to get a job, any job in fact in these economic times, perhaps the company should employ people that fits in slightly better with their own culture and mission statement? I left feeling rather less gluttonous than the jolly green aproned giants, until I bit into my flapjack with ecstasy and hopped into Waitrose for more treats.
Aside from above, 10 other things I read, did and encountered this week that may be of interest or may be you would prefer me to shut up and go back to reading your new Heat magazine:
1. Promise am only going to mention the Jungle fools once, worth reading:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/lostinshowbiz/2010/nov/26/gillian-mckeith-im-a-celebrity;
2. John Galliano Christmas Tree in the Claridges foyer;
3. Nicky Haslam singing Cole Porter at the stunning black and gold newly opened Beaufort Bar at The Savoy;
4. The Spectator Debate Series: America is just not into us at the Royal Geographical Society, RGS;
5. http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00wkjcr/The_Andrew_Marr_Show_28_11_2010/ 33 mins in see the fabulous Charlotte Rampling;
6. http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2010/nov/26/kate-middleton-conservative-style - Suzanne Moore's new column;
7. Jonathan Franzen - Freedom - first edition, with all the mistakes - collectors item via Amazon;
8. Booking Intelligence Squared new Spring Season debates - If you want fidelity - buy a dog;
9. The Wallace Collection - twice! for tea & scones with friends;
10. Selfridges, I know each and every one of your departments intimately, you have taken all my money and all I can think of is that at least I have finished the dreaded Christmas shopping before the 1st December.
Che Guevara, Berlin and the Chilean Miners...
Quite recently but not quite yesterday....
At last a chance to watch Benicio del Toro in Che Parts 1 and 2. Watching the winner of the Cannes 2008 Best Actor award as Ernesto "Che" Guevara commonly known as El Che or simply Che, the Argentine Marxist revolutionary, physician, author, intellectual, guerrilla leader, diplomat, military theorist, and major figure of the Cuban Revolution was fascinating. Particularly as the excellent weekend FT is keeping a watchful eye on Raul Castro who has repeatedly stated that the very survival of the Cuban revolution, which provides free health care, education, and subsidised housing for all its citizens, depends on economic reform. But foreign observers wonder whether they are witnessing a rerun of "perestroika", the experiment in restructuring launched by Mikhail Gorbachev in the Soviet Union in the 1980s, which was designed to preserve the communist system, but ultimately led to its downfall.
Watching Che was certainly a more exciting offering from the director Steven Soderbergh, compared to his more recent and painfully dull The Girlfriend Experience, which was seen one Sunday with friends after a delicious lunch at fave restaurant Bob Bob Ricard. Watching Che one's thoughts couldn't help but wander to the wonderful Citizen Smith starring Robert Lindsay (must remember to book Onassis theatre tickets) as "Wolfie" Smith, a young Communist "urban guerrilla" living in Tooting, South London, whose sole purpose in life is to attempt to emulate his hero Che Guevara, which was one of my favourite series when growing up in the late 70's. Wolfie is the self-proclaimed leader of the revolutionary Tooting Popular Front (merely a small bunch of his friends), the goals of which are "Power to the People" and "Freedom for Tooting". In reality, he is an unemployed dreamer and petty criminal whose plans fall through because of laziness and disorganisation.
Leaving the balmy climes of Cuba for a moment, to the ball biting temperatures of Berlin. The trip to celebrate a friends birthday started rather badly. The poor birthday girl had to wear the same outfit for 24 hours. The feeling in the pit of your stomach, when the last piece of luggage - the golf club with the silver tinsel - isn't yours. When the dodgy hoards have dragged their wears from the carousel, making sure that they hit everyone like dominoes in their wake, as they try to drag King Kong's size suitcase across your foot. The moron at the Easyjet Gatwick counter decided that it wasn't a good idea to put birthday girl's luggage (including her new Chanel shoes) on the flight tonight and the perfectly stony faced Stasi information desk confirmed this - it-will-arrive-tomorrow. Am absolutely sure he was an extra in one of my favourite film 'The Lives of Others'.
The cold air on the way to the taxi rank was met with, 'I didn't want to come to fucking Berlin anyway', as the rest of the group proudly carried and wheeled their Mulberry luggage towards the waiting Turkish taxi driver. Once in Berlin however, we found after less than 24 hours that we DID want to be in fucking Berlin and a different history of revolution and intrigue following on from Che, Hitler and everyone else who thought that they could have a go.
A week here would be too short, with amazing bars (Newton Bar) and restaurants (Remake and Grill Royal to name but a few), club (well not into those anymore - we went to 40 Seconds and was about how long we stayed), culture coming out of our ears, a better selection of boots at Gucci on the Friedrichstraße than in London and the most comfortable beds in the world at the new Soho House Berlin. Germany had certainly come a long way from the school exchange when I survived on pumpernickel and lager tainted breath snogs from the army chap met on the Harwich to Hamburg ferry.
As though spending 69 days underground wasn't enought, Edison Pena, one of the Chilean miners, completed the New York City marathon in 5 hours and 40 minutes with no previous training. Pena, known as “the runner” because he ran around in the confines of the miners’ underground shelter, was invited by organisers to watch the iconic marathon. However, simply watching as a special guest was not enough for Pena; he wanted to compete. What drives a person to push themselves to the limit? How can we motivate the long term unemployed to take pride in their lives again? Apparently Diane Abbott has the answers, but I'm not so sure. Do we need another July 26 revolution to move people emotionally and physically?
Whilst we ponder on the philosophical nature of these questions, we can only put down George Bush and Tony Blair's tomes to await the far more humanly interesting tale of the Chilean miners, their survival, their families and their extra marital affairs.
General Pervez Musharraf, Star of India & Wanderlust again….
Week ending 3rd October 2010.
This week began rather slowly. Still feeling sufficiently exhausted by the very boring virus doing the rounds in London town, I had to postpone a much eagerly awaited drinks catch up with two wonderful girlfriends until such time that I was feeling on top form to trip the light fantastic with them. Lunch is for wimps as they say, however, these two women although slightly older than me by a matter of years, have the constitutions and stamina of hormonally charged teenagers and I will have to keep taking the Solgar vitamins before I venture to the bright lights with their x factor fabulousness.
The office was incandescent with rage coupled with raging temperatures, as it now looks like ALL the men in the office have gone down with the virus. They could hardly pick up the phone to speak, with their red noses dripping and radiating whines of displeasure. It has been a hell of a slog at work this week, people leaving as they do in the property industry, only to pop up with a competitor down the road and the remainder re-grouping, buyers trying to justify their low offers with nonsense that they have read in the papers on the property market at large. Even though we deal solely in Kensington & Chelsea, one of the most expensive areas of Central London, the most intensely irritating thing is that they are not actually working IN the market yet they still feel that they should give their opinion even when residing thousands of miles away, trying to justify their low offers. If only non K&C originating buyers understood that there are literally hundreds of others within the same price range also waiting to pounce and gazump and are also solely CASH!
Off to Kensington Town Hall to join the Intelligent Squared evening with General Pervez Musharraf in conversation with Sir Christopher Meyer (see http://www.intelligencesquared.com/home). Whilst the Intelligent Squared debates and talks are excellent, they slightly lack the humour and wit of The Spectator ones. To be fair, the topics covered are incredibly important and serious in the world sphere and Musharraf announced at the talk prior to his official statement on Friday, of his return to front line politics after a sabbatical spent in England. There was obviously a huge amount of support in the room from his fellow Pakistanis residing in London, with extra dramatic effect from a poor woman at the back of the auditorium who let out a resounding yelp before a thud and collapsing, the ambulance called and as luck would have it a young doctor from nearby Imperial College London ran to her rescue. The doctor was as cool as a cucumber and within minutes returned to his seat, picked up the mic and asked not one but two provocative questions to the ‘I’m not a dictator’ speaker.
Julie’s in Clarendon Cross W11 is often called the most romantic restaurant in London. It has terrific ambience, service and food, all the winning qualities that one needs to keep bringing you back time and time again, sitting in different parts of the restaurant which make you feel that you are in a different world. There ia always a cluster of slightly inebriated locals on the outside tables, a Holland Park version of Chelsea’s Brinkley’s, which makes eavesdropping especially entertaining when ladies over 60 with cut glass accents are littering their conversations with ‘fucks’ after a couple of glasses of Sancerre. I broke my no drink rule and enjoyed a large glass of something red and French, however, I was in a subdued mood and the expletives didn’t roll that night.
It is SO easy to spend an absolute fortune on eating out in London. Ok New York has a cooler bar scene and the Far East some fabulous restaurants, but NOWHERE in the world beats London for variety and style. I forgot how good Indian food was until I revisited Star of India on the Old Brompton Road. We tucked into delicious sea bass wrapped in banana leaves and felt the spirit of the sub-continent even when the torrential London rain lashed at the windows like a dominatrix at full pelt, as a reminder that autumn had very much established itself.
Unbelievably my most treasured friend bought me the last ticket to Wanderlust at The Royal Court in Sloane Square to go with her. Last week I missed the sell-out show due to the lurgy, although I had already booked Faust at The Young Vic. I decided to sell the tickets for Faust, amazing that I am sure it was, I thought I would leave the Icelandic acrobatics for another couple to enjoy, even though it would mean missing the Nick Cave score. I still love his duet with Kylie for god’s sake that was definitely THE pairing of the century. Wanderlust was very entertaining, the painfully accurate portrayal of a bored married couple who no longer desire each other. Pippa Haywood the brilliant comic actress – ex Brittas wife and the sex mad HR boss in the un-missable Green Wing – gave a wonderful performance and has a terrific body, she has to strip to her undies during the play, role-playing a naked picnic scene with her beau. After 20 years of coupling is it not normal to find your partner less than utterly desirable in the same way as when you first met and is it really worth breaking up a family for the odd indiscretion? The play works as it is so terribly English, but would it work in French?
Martin Amis, Eat Pray Love & Ed Miliband.
Week Ending 26th September 2010
Martin Amis speaking at the Ham & High Literary Festival was brilliant. Well it would have been if I actually had the strength to have gone on Monday night. Oh Mart, STILL haven’t seen you in the flesh after all these years of reading your work and bet you were a treat discussing your latest masterpiece The Pregnant Widow. Being ill is NO fun at all – really, don’t catch this awful weather changing, why have I caught this, I have been wearing a scarf since August, malaise. It’s about as much fun as swine flu and I was one of those unlucky bastards who caught it nearly a year ago to this day. I did wonder why earlier this week that even as a lover of the early night, I was hitting the buffers by 9pm, rock and roll that ain’t! By Thursday I was completely floored.
Not only did I miss the erudite Mr Amis this week but also Wanderlust, Nick Payne’s play about sex and intimacy at The Royal Court on Thursday night which has had fantastic reviews and held in the intimate surroundings of the top floor amphitheatre. The two lucky architect friends who I gave the tickets to said it was excellent and since I had booked the tickets months ago, the whole production as usual with The Royal Court is a complete sell out, ho hum, maybe I will do the unthinkable and queue one evening. One of the reasons of living in London rather than the country which increasingly becomes a distant memory even after living the first eighteen years of my life in the middle of nowhere is the absolute wealth of amazing treats and not all cost a fortune. Why is it that men all have this romantic notion of the open spaces, the Labrador and being self sufficient and women with the exception of a weekend at Babington, are secretly perfectly content with pavements?
The one thing that being ill ensures is that you don’t crave a drink after a stressful day. Those first sips like nectar are all but a distant memory when you’re ill. In fact it is now two weeks since I’ve experienced a Tony Blair moment as he confessed in A Journey who hit the carafe after a grueling day at the coalface, rather than the bottle apparently and perhaps the odd cocktail.
Reading the bitchy comments of the fashionistas gathered at Alexander ‘Lee’ McQueen’s memorial service at St Paul’s Cathedral earlier in the week was a little unfair. Thank god for the likes of Daphne Guinness who looked amazing, even though she had a little trip on her vertiginous heels. Hip hip hoorah for fabulous English women like her (R.I.P. Isabella Blow) who are fashion pioneers and go against the David Cameron grain of everyone aspiring to resemble Gap Yah in identikit Boden by way of Parsons Green.
On the subject of politics, David Miliband had the shocker of his life when little Ed became the victor of the Labour party leadership. Far from being Red Ed, which is a convenient moniker for the startled rabbit looking new leader, David is the one in favour of ID cards, CCTV and mansion tax which all are repellent if Labour is to steal a march on the spatch cock coalition. It remains to be seen how the Manchester conference goes this week and whether Milli Vanilli have a Cain and Abel moment.
As the week closes, what better to cheer oneself up than being taken to Pizza East followed by a film at Rich Mix on Bethnal Green Road – this time Eat, Pray, Love which was of course quite surface compared to the book of the same name, although, Julia Roberts and Javier Bardem gave an entertaining performance. I am thinking of writing Eat, Pray, Love the paradoy, Drink, F**k, Sleep, which would make a much more interesting cinematic experience. Rich Mix were in the throes of celebrating Black History in the main hall on the way out of the cinema and as I smiled at the Jamaican lady on the stall with a jig in my step I knew I was on the track back to fighting fit and a busy week ahead.
Elizabeth Gilbert, Lonres & The Human Comedy.
Weekend 2010 - September 18th & 19th
Always can’t wait to read the FT on a Saturday morning for the moronic writings of The Secret Agent and the Fast Lane. Not a week goes by without a ‘steam coming out of the ears’ academic or captain of industry asking why? Why does The Secret Agent go on so many holidays and never seems exhausted with countless viewings? Why does the Fast Lane feel the need to jump on a plane EVERY day?!
The Real Agent works at least 10 hours a day. You need not apply unless you are an A1 psychologist, taxi driver, athlete and negotiator that would make the UN weak at the knees.
The gym – er once this week – not good enough. One stone to loose before Christmas and walking from the Old Brompton Road to South Ken quickly is not going to shift it. No alcohol for a week though which is excellent and boy do you feel the difference.
Watching Elizabeth Gilbert in conversation at the Cadogan Hall on Wednesday night, inspired me to reincarnate my blog. Here was an attractive, ordinary woman, who had created an extraordinary life for herself. The author of Eat Pray Love which is just being released as a movie with Julia Roberts playing Gilbert is inspiring. Not necessary the content, but the fact that so many women felt moved to fill the Hall, with a few poor blokes reluctantly dragged there starving after work, when all they wanted was to be at home watching Eastenders with a nice glass of something and a bowl of pasta. They wondered quite what they were doing there for an hour and a half watching a divorcee who had come full circle eating her way through Italy, meditation and prayer in India and finding love in Bali. Whilst the assortment of women were enthralled with the crazy Belgian interviewer’s performance, the men furtively glanced their watches around 8pm and the home stretch.
Thursday night brought the annual estate agents jamboree at Burton Court in Chelsea known as Lonres. An annual parade of the good, almost great and ever so slightly below average in the property world! It would have been such a fabulous party had it actually been in the heatwave of June and not one that turned into a night of the living dead within half an hour of nightfall. The new downloaded torch app on the i-phone was used until the battery had run dry and after about an hour the call of La Delizia beckoned to warm up the almost frostbitten hands and feet. The new Gucci shoes and Joseph dress completely wasted in the dark, I wish I had worn a blanket.
Now I know that I like my theatre edgy and whilst the performance of The Human Comedy on Saturday night was far more uplifting than the recent performance of a suicide – 4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane at The Barbican – in POLISH which made it EVEN more bloody harrowing than it would have been in English – The Human Comedy, a musical based in California during the second World War was just at the other end of the scale. We lasted till the end of the first half and whilst it would’ve been easy to let the production and music wash over you to the last chord, we thought we could guess the ending. Due to Papa’s visit, we had decided uncharacteristically to jump on public transport with the result of the 170 home thinking we had stepped into the set of Adulthood – with the gasping pit bull being given pride of place of its own prominently placed seat.
Extract from Exquisite Corpse 2004
The wedding of the year was to be spectacularly held in one of the finer castles in the English Countryside. It was splashed across all of the newspapers, with lists of the famous guests or ‘rent a crowd’ that would be attending for at least two weeks before the actual event. Adequate time for any would be gatecrasher or demon paparazzi to plan their route to hedonistic heaven. They would all be there the write ups screamed with such excitement never seen before for a society wedding, not since the Royal Wedding in 1981 was there such pandemonium over the security and guest list. Those society kings and queens who had sent acceptance letters to the grooms mother included: Palm Beach Pamela, the society sunshine queen that would travel around the world in her private jet following the polo jet set and bedding them, one by one.
P.B.P. so named as her skin was as tough as an old rhino’s from too much sun, alcohol and partying. Pamela would spend the year, following the sun around the world, snaring each young stud that walked into her path. There had been recent rumours that she was about to marry one such stud, a gorgeous Argentine polo player by the name of Canto Perineum, with a legendary cock as long and as strong as his most muscular stallions. Canto owned the most beautiful ranch in the country and surprise, surprise, funnily enough was also one of the richest men in the Southern Hemisphere. Apparently he had promised Pamela that if she married him this year, he would pay for her face, breast and tummy lift to try to make her look like a pert nineteen year old all over again. Hopefully Pamela would have recovered suitably enough to attend the amazing wedding so that the whole media crew could gawp at her ‘work’ as they called the surgically enhanced that they reported on.
Contessa Valiuma de la Andepressanta would also be attending with her newest ski bum beau. The Countessa lived most of the year in Gstaad, was a demon skier and had an impeccable background including an education at Rosey and two billionaire husbands that had somehow died on her within a year of marrying and had left her a vast fortune on which she most certainly enjoyed herself to the full on. Valiuma bored with her billions had spent increasing time enjoying the old white powder rather than the powder of her beloved slopes. The last article I remember reading about her described how she had almost died last Christmas of septicemia, from too much party snow up her surgically enhanced nostrils.
Echinacea Kleinwort Jenson, the German banking heiress, who was now on her third marriage at the age of twenty seven. Echinacea and Valiuma were best friends and played the international party circuit together beautifully. They were a doubly successful poker team and played for huge sums of money against the boys at their weekly London
The most annoying of the whole Euro-trash group however, was Hermione von St John’s Wort-Winklehoffen. I had already met Hermione a number of times since the fated wedding that I crashed and first ‘met’ her properly on the dancefloor of Tramp. She had thankfully not recognised me at one of Billy’s extravagant drinks parties that he had thrown just before his death. Wort-Winklehoffen made it plainly obvious that she was desperate to get into my husband’s pants and whenever Billy was in the room, she made a point of purposely standing with her back to me. She behaved as though I had practically fallen off the ‘scene’ and I was subversively blanked whenever I had the misfortune to see her.
Oh, I almost forgot that Parisian jewellery designer cow, Catalie Hydro, who was definitely not my cup of tea. She was also at the wedding of the year, parading her bag of tat for everyone to buy from her and thinking that she was the best dressed woman in London
So we made our way to the wedding of the year, or possibly the decade. Myself and two gay male friends, who are two of my favourite people in the world. The three of us had been talking about the possibility of ‘accepting an invitation’ to the wedding for a few weeks beforehand and thought it might be a hoot. What better way to spend a Saturday night than to be handcuffed and arrested by the local old bill. With security rife, how the hell would we do it? Why did we want to do it? How would we feel if we found gatecrashers at our own weddings? I drove up from London
James and Edmund had always said that I was a gay man trapped in a woman’s body. I found myself getting very upset at this crazy suggestion and told them that there was absolutely nothing ‘trapped’ about my personality whatsoever, even if it did mean that I could not quite explain why I adored dancing to Hazel Dean’s greatest hits. We giggled as I drove to the venue and did not analyse the way that we would make our entrance into the castle grounds, which we hoped, was not accompanied by a whopping great moat. Besides, we were far more concerned about finding the bloody place, without an aide memoir of so much as a map of the area or a previous dry-run recce.
A great friend of ours, Araminta Dunkley, who apparently had multiple experience in the art of graceful gate crashing, had come up with the ingenuous idea of trotting up to the castle door with a wine glass in each of our hands, as though we had momentarily left the wedding throng to take in a little air before dining. Araminta had been successful hundreds of times with this clever wheeze at various book launches, rock group after show parties and even society weddings. The only time that Araminta had come unstuck was when she had taken a large balloon size wine glass, fill with Chablis to a party filled with non-drinkers clutching their alcohol-free fruit cocktails. It was the best piece of advice of the whole evening that we could have got. Those wine glasses, looking back, even if they were cheap cut glass from the local ESSO garage, were our absolute saving grace.
Graceful gate crashing it was not! The half a mile drive to the castle was as dark as hell and at low beam, with palpitating heart, I nearly managed to screw up the start to the evening by driving into the entrance’s steepest ditch. The main entrance was swarming with paparazzi and ruddy faced locals shouting the names of the well-known faces inside the stunning looking marquee. It certainly did not look like this gate crashing lark was going to be the biggest breeze of our lives. Our wine glasses were held with the grip of an SAS soldier in Sierra Leone
So in gay shoes and my Jimmy Choos, we trampled across an ‘alternative route’ around the castle walls and the adjacent, surprisingly for this time of year, rather muddy cow field. I have to say that when we realised that we might have to scale the castle’s fortressed walls at one point, we paled in terror and nearly let fly the whole idea to retreat back to the safety of my VW and the local nightclub. Especially as the ropes and ladders that we had forgotten to bring with us AND high heels (worn by all three of us!) was not quite the ideal situation to find oneself in when faced by a bit of impromptu wall scaling and Oxfordshire cow merde. We were unquestionably not having it all at nine o’clock that fateful Saturday night.
However, the ghost of party spirit was on our side that night and fifty metres hence, we fell upon a five foot wooden fence which we decided was worth getting a leg over for. We swiftly got a leg over, only to be encountered on the other side by a young girl with a playful Jack Russell. The dog apparently belonged to Lady B, the bride groom’s mother, who would be along any minute to check on her beloved hound. A great deal of fuss was made by us towards the stunned looking terrier and our new found friend, namely Lady B’s nanny and our orientation became a little more louche and relaxed as we happily walked inside the walled gardens. Hurrahs all round, hugs for each of us, we had got in. That is until we were ‘found’ by a burly security guard manning the premises.
With wine glasses still firmly in our hands even after the fence climb, we decided that the best thing to do in this situation was to sit down in the conveniently placed herb garden terrazzo and feign me not feeling on best form to say the least. Mr. Security asked (just a little suspicion rising in his voice), if we were lost. I replied in a confident but relaxed voice that I had not been feeling terribly well and had wanted to come for a bit of a walk around the castle grounds and breathe a little fresh air to make me feel better before embarking on dinner. Mr. S scared the living daylights out of us when he explained that the dobermans and rottweilers were out patrolling the castle tonight and that it was not a safe idea to be walking around on our own.
Thanking him for his concern and that I was feeling a touch better, the security guard kindly showed us the correct and safest way to the marquee. Had we not been carrying our now extensively finger stained wine glasses we would not have got away with it. Don’t even need to go to Brixton these days to live life on the edge. Just walk through Hyde Park in a thunder & lightning storm and you’ve pretty much had it, or indeed here at Superbenders Castle
Shit, bugger, fuck. The five hundred starry night arseholes were still on the main course of their dinner and the three of us looked like complete loonies again, standing outside of the marquee huddled under a tree. Security and dogs patrolled past us at too regular intervals for comfort. Anyone videoing our trepidation would find it was like watching a farce, akin to television’s Big Brother but hopefully a touch more glamorous and without the mingers. Not only that, but James had decided to bring Space cake with him as our own wedding night celebratory dinner! What the hell, we chomped it down and giggled for what seemed an eternity under the ancient oak until ………………in like Flynn………………Well I’m not going to tell you quite how we did it now am I, but it was bloody good. Not a breeze, no James Bond heroics to get in, but it tuned into a truly memorably five in the morning sort of a night.
The house was packed, every gold backed chair was taken and the gallery stood cheek by jowl. Everyone behaved impeccably wooden, no running, no diving, no petting for these guys. They were all here, to see and be seen, with their rented designer clothes and Harry Winston loaned spectacular diamonds. Ah, there by the waterfall was the bride and groom, the stunning Dozy Malteser and her new husband Queenie Burghley, who looked like they’d been on Senokat all week. I observed that Dozy and Queenie had spent ages chatting inanely to Stefan Bling-Bling the cosmetics queen, perhaps he was their dealer. Edmund, James and I were not especially assiduous at this gate crashing business; however, one could not fault the wow factor of the party, dominated by the ruthless doyenne of Supershyster PR. At last we were having it all.
We danced, we stared and we marveled at the spectacle before our eyes. There were rose bowls filled full of Columbian’s finest on each table complete with silver straws engraved with the initials of each guest, there was a five foot tower of the most delicious smelling flowers artistically entwined with fruits hardly imaginable, gracing each table’s centerpiece. But the most interesting spectacle of all was the flirting; smooching and bickering amongst the sea of Pilates toned bodies, moving on from the partner that they had come to the party with and moving swiftly on to the new pick up, in one deftly maneuver. Including a guest appearance by the three musketeers on the wedding evening video (yes we thought that a bit naff too for a celebration of this calibre) and Edmund’s drunken ‘Darling you look fabulous, congratulations’, speech to the startled bride! We all thought that this was terribly brave on Edmund’s part, what wouldn’t have made a great party, without a bit of kitsch?!
Novel - Unmitigated Disaster - synopsis
Unmitigated Disaster - synopsis
Chapter One
The door of the Dorchester suite closed shut as Carina Jefferson slowly opened her eyes from a very bleary eyed sleep. In her millimetre squint, she saw the dark haired man close the door quietly behind him. She tried to sit up but could hardly move. She became panic stricken. Had she suffered a stroke in the middle of the night? She had recently read about thirty-two year olds who had gone to bed quite happily and the next morning were speechless, quite literally. No it couldn’t be a stroke? Could it? She was the healthiest woman that she knew.
Her eyes slowly focused on the crushed white powder on the mirror balanced onto the bedside table a foot away from her and there was a small rim of white powder still left on the small glass with what looked like whisky inside of it. Call housekeeping immediately she struggled as she edged towards the telephone. There was no doubt about it, Carina had been drugged. She could not feel her mouth; it tingled as she drew a heavy lifeless hand to her lips. What the hell happened last night? How could she have been so out of it to end up like this? As Carina looked at her left hand she saw a new band of gold around her wedding finger that was never there when she walked into the hotel lobby late last night.
That man, the one that had just left the room, she knew him from somewhere. He was unmistakable and completely without disguise as he left their suite. Surely he should have been wearing a party nose and moustache and a hat shouldn’t he? The paparazzi would get him outside in no time and he would be turned into the FBI, M15, and the BBC in an instant. The person who had walked out of their elegant suite not five minutes before was none other than Osama Bin Laden. She had somehow between eight o’clock last night and ten o’clock that morning got herself married to the most wanted terrorist on god’s earth. She was now Mrs. Bin Laden.
Chapter Two
On the other side of town, Freddie Davidoff was having huge problems with his penalty shoot out practice. He played for Milwall, which was no longer the hooligans best friend, but a football stadium in the East End of London that had now been converted into a multi-million state of the art contemporary football club, perfect for the Olympics which were due to be held there in 2012.
If Freddie wanted to be England Captain next season, he was seriously going to have to knuckle down and get some decent practice in. Out must go the late wild nights partying without his plastic fantastic wife and her mentally unstable sister. In must come six in the morning starts, ten mile runs and more goal practices than he could even imagine. Although, it would be a very hard move to make. He could hardly take such inspiration from his boss Geezer Nokia, who spent most of his day looking for a love pad to house his new fling of the moment, when Geezer should have been coaching the team into a replica 1966 winning first team.
Chapter Three
Back at home, still in quite a haze, Carina sat herself down at her minimalist desk and tried to concentrate on writing her weekly column. She was a widely read and widely talked about columnist on the most popular warts and all celebrity magazine. This week Carina was writing about celebrities who hung out in Park Lane hotel bars. Of course, that’s how she ended up at the Dorchester last night. Mingling with teeny bopper pop stars and pimply soap stars all squeezed into faux leather booths, pouting at each other over pre and post dinner cocktails.
She felt absolutely shocking, but it wasn’t too difficult. Carina could type one hundred words per minute and how difficult could it be to write about the odd inch of cellulite or whether red and green should never be seen? Because her job wasn’t mentally tiring or particularly exciting to such a bright girl as Carina, she had the time and energy to spend getting a little more excitement out of her evenings. Once she got the low down on the gossip for the magazine, she would spend time seeking out and even flirting with the more ‘interesting’ guests at the party. Obviously last night was no different.
She looked down at her hand and saw the wedding band. She couldn’t possibly have been drugged for her own wedding? She may have flirted with slightly career elusive Middle Eastern looking men, but surely she would have remembered marrying them? The ring would not come off, not with soap, not with WD40, every liquid advertised; hell bent on removing the toughest stains would not remove the gold band on her finger. Well it was rather exquisite she thought and looked quite antique. I will just have to keep it on until it wears itself away she thought and carried on emailing her piece to her editor.
Chapter Four
A few thousand miles away, Dog Tired the faded 60’s pop recluse was just landing at LAX airport. He had converted to Islam after a huge publicised row about monks not being able to wear trousers, with the Pope on a tour of the Vatican in his heyday. Dog immediately denounced his Roman Catholicism and persisted on being photographed with a copy of the Koran whenever possible.
Dog was making a comeback. He had been thirty years out of the spotlight and he was ready for another go at tripping the light fantastic. Hollywood was definitely the place to position himself for the new reinvented Dog Tired. After the war on terror, the Midwest had taken to reading the Koran in droves and they would understand his subliminal messages in his new lyrics. Although Hollywood was primarily run by the Jewish community, Dog would prove to Hollywood that he and his message was the perfect catalyst for both sides of the religious conflict to unite as one at last. Dog Tired would be more of a united one-world hero than any Bush or Kerry administration could ever be.
Chapter Five
Freddie Davidoff was despondent as he clicked his purple limited edition Ferrari shut. He stood outside of his huge mock Tudor mansion in the middle of Epping Forrest and sighed a heavy sigh. How could his wife, his tour de force be such a power wielding hungry, cold calculating bitch. He had wanted to give up football two seasons ago when he had turned thirty three. He would have been able to go for the sports pundit position that he was loosely offered on Sky for a huge amount of money. But oh no, Deborah Davidoff, the money grabbing attention seeking wife of his made him stay in the game.
Freddie Davidoff wanted more than anything else now to be an actor. He had a great face and still a great body, why it made him more money in endorsements for sunglasses and designer jeans than football every could. He had a fantastic agent in the guise of one Jonathan Wiseman, the best connected Jew in the business and the agent of many a Hollywood film star. If Tom Ford could make the transition from designer dresses to downing daiquiris on the silver screen, then why couldn’t the gorgeous Freddie Davidoff do the same? He would pass it by Wiseman at the launch of the newest Mayfair members bar and club Doodle tonight.
Chapter Six
Carina Bin Laden, nee Jefferson got ready for tonight’s launch of Doodle. Still feeling quite woozy after the previous night at the Dorchester, Carina wasn’t so sure that she should even be going out at all. The only reason was that she could probably glean enough material for a whole month of issues of Cheap Tat tonight with all the A to Z listers going to be at the party. It would then give her enough time to fathom out who and why she had managed to get herself married to a man that she did not know last night. She felt very vulnerable and completely unnevered. What was she doing coming back to her own apartment on her own? Surely a man like that must have surveillance on her night and day? As long as she stayed in the clear and did not do anything wrong or speak to the wrong people, it would go away, and surely they would leave her alone?
Freddie and Deborah Davidoff were having the biggest argument of their lives. He hated her common look and thigh split Versace. Why couldn’t she wear something a little less obvious? Dear Freddie came from a nice Home Counties family and could still not understand why his gutter snipe wife could not shake off her Black Country accent and her fondness for plastic four inch stilettos, whatever expensive help that they were able to employ. Her sister Wendy was not much help either, always edging her on to wearing outré outfits that got the flashbulbs of the waiting photographers in a frenzy. Deborah Davidoff featured on the cover of Cheap Tat three out of four issues a month. The only reason that she did not appear was either because she was in Japan endorsing new karaoke machines, or because she was too ill or too weak from her self inflicted food neurosis.
Chapter Seven
Jonathan Wiseman could not be missed as the centre piece of any party. His clients adored him and genuinely so. He got them the best jobs in the business, he had the best personal contacts and most importantly, made his clients more money than most of the other sports and actors agents in town put together. ‘Hey Freddie, you know Mr. Yokomoto here is looking for a new face for his trendy new painkillers,’ said Jonathan enthusiastically. ‘Sounds great, hello Mr. Yokomoto,’ replied Freddie politely and smoothly as ever, giving a huge flash of Harley Street veneers.
‘Jonathan you know that footballers aren’t supposed to suffer from headaches, I don’t think that Geezer Nokia will allow me to do this one,’ said Freddie. ‘Don’t worry about Geezer, he could do with a few painkillers himself, maybe the two of you could do the campaign, it’s going to be in South Korea anyhow.’ ‘I thought the strap line, relieves your pains on and off the pitch, might be good one Freddie,’ smiled Jonathan looking directly at Deborah Davidoff who was doing a very good impression of a Christmas tree. ‘By the way Jonathan, I want to pass an idea I have about my future with you, you’re an expert on getting the best out of Hollywood actors I hear.’
Carina whoever she was since last night, had enough material to sink a battleship. Everybody who the PR company invited had made it to the launch of Doodle that night. Carina put away her notepad and thought that she would stay for one more drink to relax from the tensions of the night before. Plus she did not want to return to an empty apartment just yet, be good to speak to some familiar faces to put her at ease again. After two years of writing about micro minis and rhinoplasty, she couldn’t wait to talk to a few old friends from fashion college that she noticed in the crowd.
Carina walked over to a rather ornate swan ice sculpture in the middle of the room, it was beautifully carved with real looking black and orange eyes. Champagne poured over its wings and into ready glasses moved in to place by the expert waiting staff. ‘Do you like my masterpiece,’ a voice said from behind Carina. She turned around to see the most handsome man of questionable heritage. He could have been a whole mix of different species Carina thought. A beautiful olive skinned face with piercing green eyes and dark smartly groomed eyebrows. Lebanese, Indian, Egyptian or Afghan she had no idea where. Carina turned around to face her stranger head on. ‘Fabulous sculpture,’ she said. ‘I’m a partner in this club, I’m glad you like it,’ said the devastating stranger. ‘My name is Salem Compton-Brown,’ he offered. ‘And I am Carina, um, Carina Jefferson.’ ‘I know, I’ve seen you before,’ replied Salem not altogether unfamiliarly. ‘Promise me that you will meet me for dinner tomorrow night at Zuma Carina,’ said Salem.
Salem Compton-Brown was quite an English sounding name thought Carina as she went home in the taxi that night. Where had she met him before? His face was a little familiar but she could not remember having spoken to him before. Although she met many people in her line of work and new faces came in and out of fashion, such a beautiful, sophisticated man such as Salem Compton-Brown, she would have definitely remembered. As she fumbled in her bag for her purse to pay the taxi driver, Carina accidentally stumbled and sat back down on her mobile phone. Damn she had accidentally dialled 999, the safety lock wasn’t on. I hope I didn’t waste their time she thought and felt bad as she realised what she had done. Five minutes later as she was putting her key in the lock, her mobile rang, number withdrawn. ‘Hello?’ ‘Hello, Ms. Jefferson, Scotland Yard here, is everything ok?’ ‘Yes, fine thank you, sorry I dialed 999 by mistake, I’m so very sorry,’ said Carina in a state of shock. ‘If you need anything, do call us any time day or night.’ The line went dead.
Chapter Eight
Off the coast of Belize a conference call was taking place. ‘We are ready for Operation Mount in one month’s time,’ said the voice in Belize. ‘Affirmative,’ replied the other voices in North Korea, Sudan, Iran and Finchley in North London. ‘I have been surveying the area all week and all is going to plan.’ The major terrors of the world were planning the biggest attack ever seen to coincide with the Hollywood Bi-Centenary taking place the following month. ‘Who is taking care of the how shall we phrase it, guest list?’ asked the North Korean General. ‘Everybody will be there Sir, I have their acceptances in writing,’ said the voice from Hollywood itself. ‘I have organised past, present and future of Hollywood, leading heads of state and even the US President himself is giving a speech on the night.’ ‘Good work and now we will not rest until those uncultured ignorant philstines no longer remain on Mohammed’s soil.’ Dog Tired put down the telephone, he had a lot of preparations to make.
Chapter Nine
Freddie Davidoff gave his last conference at Milwall before he left that day for Hollywood. Jonathan Wiseman sat next to him, fielding away any unwanted questions on why he wasn’t taking Deborah with him. Little did they know that Freddie and Deborah were now estranged following his complete embarrassment of her at the Doodle launch party. ‘Freddie will be appearing in a fabulous cameo part as an international footballer in the new Quentin Tarrantino movie,’ Jonathan announced with all the pride of a new mother. ‘Wonder if he will get to keep his cheesy grin or whether Tarrantino will make it wider for him with one of his swords,’ quipped one of the many present hacks.
Chapter Ten
Carina still couldn’t remove the damn band of gold on her left hand. Salem Compton-Brown was going to ask her god knows how many questions about it at dinner at Zuma tonight she was sure of it. She had to get some sort of story straight about it, she couldn’t think she was so nervous. As he walked into the restaurants, every woman’s head turned. Salem Compton-Brown looked and smelt amazing. He looked supremely confident but not a bit pretentious in his hand cut Saville Row suit. His mother would have been proud of him, whoever and wherever she came from Carina thought.
Salem Compton-Brown turned out to be half Saudi Arabian and half English. His mother a wealthy oil producer’s daughter had fallen in love with an English old Etonian called Compton-Brown in the sixties. Salmira Wassabi was a society beauty of her day in Saudi Arabia and came over to live with her parents in a suite at the Dorchester one summer when she turned eighteen. She had met Gordon Compton-Brown at a dance given in the Dorchester’s ballroom in her honour. Young Gordon was a cherished debs delight who could not be kept off a smart London party’s list. The eighteen year old Salmira was immediately taken with his good English looks and height and they married exactly one year later.
Salem’s parents were now divorced. The once beautiful Salmira died of breast cancer ten years ago. His father Gordon met a faded sixties supermodel at a mutual friends dinner party one night and now helped her at her donkey sanctuary in deepest Devon. It sounded like Salem had enjoyed a reasonably comfortable yet conventional English public school life, even though now he was lumped together with the nocturnal playboys that made up the partnership of Doodle. I wondered why he had singled me out at the Doodle party? God knows the room was five deep in gold lame with Paris Hilton look-alikes strutting their stuff in front of admiring glances.
Salem Compton-Brown made no mention of Carina’s band of gold, which she felt a little odd. Maybe he didn’t see the wedding band she thought. Although, he was so meticulous with his own clothes that he surely would have taken in every little detail about her, especially as he seemed so interested. Maybe he already knew why she was wearing it, but she did not feel he was acting odd towards her in any way at all. Salem was very open about his past and the way that his parents had forged perfect Saudi and Anglo dynasties together. He had a job as a partner in Doodle which cost over twenty million to refurbish and to market, he was used of course for his vast inheritance and his contacts. Wasn’t he?
Chapter Eleven
Freddie had just completed his first acting class with LA’s top coach. Jonathan Wiseman had organised it of course. Freddie, perhaps not a natural but definitely not as wooden as some of the hopefuls that showed up on a daily basis waiting tables in the Rodeo Drive coffee shops waiting for the big one, Freddie had a huge head start in the movie stakes.
‘“Slash, Bang, Wollop” is going to be just HUGE Fredster,’ said Jonathan confidently. ‘You are going to be the next big thing, I can feel the buzz about you Freddie, the chicks all love you.’ ‘And the guys all love you too,’ winked Jonathan. ‘There’s Quentin Tarrantino over there now Freddie,’ said Jonathan. ‘Hey Quentin, what do you think of my new star, mean mother with a sword don’t you think?’ asked Wiseman. ‘Hey dude, that was a great scene, just great,’ said Quentin. The cult movie legend congratulating a mere bit part ex-footballer on his newly honed martial arts skills. Freddie Davidoff could get used to this. Deborah and her dippy sister Wendy seemed a whole lifetime away.
Chapter Twelve
Carina looked out of the window along the Champ D’Elyses. Paris was so beautiful in the springtime and so was the man lying next to her. Salem Compton-Brown certainly moved fast. Carina Compton-Brown certainly had a certain ring to it. Well slightly better than Carina Bin Laden it had to be said. Even though they had only known each other for a week, Salem would hardly let Carina out of his sight. She was absolutely caught up in the whirlwind of the amazing romance. Dinner at every fashionable restaurant that Salem had a substantial share in for the past week and now, a five star Parisian weekend, complete with private jet. All at Salem’s expense. He had still not asked about her wedding ring. Maybe he thought it was a modern girl’s statement. After all there was what looked like ancient writing around it and it could possibly pass for a Boodle, Doodle & Dunthorp number.
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