As if London's media bores need any more excuses to go drinking together, The Media Club has just popped up to service the needs of the Noho crew (that's North of Soho to you). An outraged Daily Mail photographer was escorted out as I arrived for the launch (a good sign) followed by a Sky film crew going in (not so good). The club itself was piney, smelt of paint and reminded me of nothing so much as an aerobics studio. Tory Conference Ikea furniture hovered ethereally around the edges while a jazz band gamely sang to themselves in the absence of any interest from the guests. Meanwhile, the chosen few were flexing their drinking muscles, trowelling in the free food and regaling each other with tales of their own magnificence. I think, in media terms, that qualifies as a success.
Watching a white stallion having a crap in a courtyard is an interesting way to start an evening out. But then, the Velvet Goldmine bash was all about excess so, on this occasion, I'm prepared to forgive and forget.
This premiere/party combo in Piccadilly was undoubtedly the hottest ticket in town this week, although Ewan McGregor's geography teacher beard on the night - a Richard Stilgoe creation if ever I saw one - put the OTT fabulousness of the evening in temporary jeopardy.
Luckily, everyone else at the afterparty made up for it. A feast for the senses, this was soft-porn heaven, from the lipstick kiss on on the invite to the exquisitely attired "hired help". There seemed to be a naked - completely naked - girl at almost every turn, the poor lambs freezing their proverbials off under a sheen of bodypaint, while posing tirelessly for grateful tabloid photographers.
A bed big enough to sumo-wrestle on was being utilised by giggling girls in fluffy negligees, who proceeded to roll around "exclusively" for the excitable OK! snapper. ( I declined on the grounds that it might incriminate me at a later date.)
Meanwhile, in another room, flesh was being tattooed, passing men were being tickled with feathers and Bowie lookalikes were mincing around as if their buttocks were glued together. Even the statues were wearing ponsy feathered hats.
Revelling in all this decadence were Boy George, his very own ponsy hat and red PVCed friend, all of whom proceeded to get lost on the three levels of elegant dancefloors, balconies and courtyards, along with the rather angry-looking Johnny Lee Miller and Lock Stock's ubiquitous pretty party boy Nick Moran - who, at this rate, must be close to securing his own social column by now.
"Honestly, I do know who you are," Moran bleated to a blonde who'd called his bluff on his knowing her name. The amazing thing is, it turned out that he did know it. Which may be good news for the waif-like blonde, but it's hardly Seventies superstar behaviour, is it? On the other hand, it's perfect for that career at Tatler.
It's hard to imagine a 500-strong waiting list for an ad agency party (can anyone truly be this desperate?). But then, this was no ordinary bash. BMP DDB - hot to trot in the advertising industry but completely unknown to anyone else - was celebrating its 30th birthday party in style at the Albert Hall.
Mark Lamarr played host to two hours of commercials (ironically, with only one break) which included classics (ie, I like them), such as the Honey Monster and the 'For Mash get Smash' aliens. Even Tony Blair, bless 'im, popped up on screen to say a headmasterish "Well done", as did the Prince of Darkness, who promptly got booed off.
The food was, um, a surprise or, as BMP chief exec Chris Powell cheerfully admitted, "bizarre". Personally I don't have a problem with cocktail sausages on a stick, but even I had to swap over to the nachos after a while. Culinary blunders aside, the assembled masses which included an eclectic set of celebs such as Caroline Aherne, Caroline Quentin, Patricia Hodge and Andy Kershaw, all enjoyed the best TV they've seen in years.
Oh, the irony of it all.
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