Oh to be a sloth… as ugly as sin but allowed to sleep all day every day. Plus, there are no mirrors in the jungle, no fuss… bliss.
The more observant of you will be able to tell that I am suffering from intense sleep deprivation. The last week has been hectic and my pillow is experiencing withdrawal symptoms from a lack of contact with my head. If I sound more narky than usual, you now know why. I’d apologise if I had the energy.
I went to a charity fashion party last week at the rose petal endowed club Tantra. It was played up to be a star-studded glamour fest but left a lot to be desired. A few of the Big Brother ‘stars’ (or should I say ‘mon-stars’) were flitting about trying to appear aloof in their new found ‘fame’. I think their time in the spotlight is drawing to a near. After all, the next instalment starts soon. Gawd help us.
The smattering of performers couldn’t be seen through the towering wall of photographers. I got stuck behind a camera-wielding brute the size of 3 houses (mansions with extensions more like it). For a pint-sized punter like me, it was all just too much…
More let downs met me at the bar… the “free cocktails” turned out to be singular. Yes, just one drink consisting of a splash of vodka and a dash of cheap juice thrown in by a bored barman. The fact that they were charging ?8.50 for the semi-decent stuff said it all. This brings me to the biggest let down of the night and one of my major gripes about London – nasty bar and security staff. Talk about a bar full of incompetent tossers, more interested in chatting amongst themselves than with earning their keep. I’m sorry, but if you don’t enjoy your job, quit and let someone with an ounce of work ethic have your pay cheque.
The security looked like stunned mackerel and only perked up when Jodie Marsh pranced out in a Gwen Steffani-inspired costume. Pity it wasn’t pulled off in the funky way dear Gwen manages to. Maybe it was her over-zealous pig tails (can a hair style even be over-zealous?!) These bunches were so big they’d make Dumbo’s lobes look small.
My posse left before the fashion parade even started – when your male companion won’t even eat the canap?s you know it’s a bad event! Little glistening sausages just don’t cut it. Most events these days supply prawns, vodka shot deserts, or at least mini serves of fish and chips. The dry, prehistoric chicken strips on offer didn’t go down well. If their budget was a problem they should have offered carrot sticks and hummus. Cheap, cheerful and at least ladies eat them.
On the upside, my ?10 went to charity. I would have donated more but the unpleasant staff had an effect on my purse… its little metal clasp was wedged firmly shut. I’ll send them a cheque – at least envelopes don’t scowl.
Luckily our departure didn’t involve the arrogant Elvis wanna-be of a doorman. On our way in he’d proven himself as a walking microcosm for all that is bad in this city. Leery, patronising and so far up his own behind I doubt he’s ever seen the light of day. Perhaps that’s why he felt the need to wear a pair of sunglasses in the pitch dark. It seemed to be the look of the night. Honestly, I think it’s a fashion embraced by the old, the ugly and the drug addicted. I guess it’s cheaper than a nip and tuck.
At least the city looks fab at the moment… the Christmas lights are out all along Regent Street. I may be a hardened little drama queen but Christmas lights are one thing that melts me every time. The power used to light up the little brutes could probably fuel a small power plant – now there’s an issue for charity. How much do you think THAT costs? They do make people smile though (which is more than I can say for second-class celebs).
My interview of the week was with Mark Burton and Pete Sinclair – the writers of a new musical called ‘The Next Big Thing’. The performance is full of sex, drugs and rock-n-roll (and that was just the press after party!). It’s a journey through the British music scene – past and present. Definitely worth a look, especially if you’re not usually a West End musical type.
It’s not full of stars and that’s part of its charm. It is however, full of great tunes and quality acting. As Phil Sinclair told me, “We didn’t have enough money to pay a huge stars to be in this anyway. It’s not like I’m pretending we looked at them all and said, “Yeah, that’s interesting Mr Connery but we’re going to see someone else…”
Go see it.
The rest of the week has been spent in the bath (yes, I have officially reached shrivelled prune status), at house parties that never end, and rambling through the English countryside. An ex- farm girl has to remind herself of her roots you know (and by that I mean nature you filthy sods). A lack of gumboots and a tendency to fall over in mud means that I always end up looking like a grot ball on legs. Mud to my neck is inevitable… at least it saves on facemasks.
I’d consider working on my sloth impressions this week but I just don’t have the time. I have a Vogue/Armani glamour night at Harvey Nichols to attend, followed by a rock evening in Camden, topped off with the Erotica 2005 festival. Not all in one night mind you, a girl only has so much energy!
As luck would have it I’m also trying to save my dwindling bank balance. My trip to Australia is three weeks away and I’m dreading going ‘Down Under’ with nothing but pale skin and my passport. Maybe I’ll stay in next week.
Maybe not.
Damn this city – there’s just too much to do! Get some sleep for me will you? I’ll repay the favour sometime… honest.
