Ever read about swanky celeb clubs where supermodels run riot
and Prince Harry bashes the photographers outside and wished you could
be a part of it? Well, lucky old me was invited to a premiership
football party at the Embassy Club, one of those hot clubs du jour in Mayfair. My
expectations were high: I would be rubbing shoulders with famous types
in plush surroundings – perhaps I’d even get my photo taken with, ooh,
Jodie Marsh.
It was, admittedly, quite exciting drawing
up in a cab at the entrance with paparazzi flashes going off as my
friends and I joined the queue. They weren’t taking pictures of us
obviously – you’re no-one here unless you’ve scored a premiership goal
or sold a kiss ‘n’ tell and I’ve never so much as held hands with Abi
Titmuss.
The door policy is super-strict to keep
riff-raff out and if your name’s not down on the list, you’re not
coming in. Inside, the décor is average and the music churned out
above the sea of bleached-blonde heads is decidedly commercial R&B
– don’t expect anything special for your £20 entrance fee. I was
wearing a black halterneck dress, an outfit which in other
circumstances would probably have been considered quite slinky, hell
even sexy. Amid the hotpants and stringy tops lashed to even
stringier bodies with oodles of tit-tape, however, I felt like Ann
Widdecombe at Manumission.
Initially aghast, me and my
girls decided the thing to do would be to get a drink. A bottle
of wine for the three of us and a shot of vodka each came to a
staggering £45. This is, no doubt, all part of an extremely
cunning drink policy – you need to order another stiff drink to get
over the shock of the first bill.
There were a few
bursts of celebrity; Leilani with hair so big it can surely only have
been achieved by piling three wigs on top of each other, Ashley Cole
and Sol Campbell. They were quickly whisked up the curiously
dingy back staircase which led to the disappointingly tiny VIP area,
populated by the odd celeb and a lot of ordinary folk walking around
hopefully with cameras, taking photos of other non-famous faces and
trying to convince themselves it’s someone off Eastenders.
Despite
the strict door policy, the club was packed and we often had to fight
our way to the bar or toilets, sometimes literally as this is the sort
of place where egos are inflated and elbows sharpened – remember to
check your manners in at the cloakroom. The ladies’ was tiny for
such a large club and the battle of the flicking hair extensions was
raging over the sinks. There was an attempt at the swankiness
you’d expect at an expensive club – bottles of Molton Brown instead of
crappy soap dispensers. All empty.
We ended up
hovering about on the dancefloor admiring the half-hearted dancing
around us that comes of trying to balance oneself in a pair of weeny
hotpants and fragile boobtube and played spot the collagen lip implants
(winning score: 15).
So all in all, a bit of a let
down from the posh celebrity-style partying I thought I’d be
doing. However, it’s a comfort to know that a night at my local
Wetherspoons and a kebab on the way home is just as classy – and
infinitely more fun.
