On Saturday, we went to Another Party at The Coronet in Elephant and Castle. This is pretty much the most Hood area in London. Did you see that movie Harry Brown with Michael Caine? Yeah, that takes place here. I actually did my foundation year at uni here, at London College of Communications, so I’ve spent a lot of time here, and it really is gangsta! However, the people at the party were all beautiful and awesome. Many familiar faces! Our table was situated perfectly- my cousin Louise had a table next to us, as did some other old friends of ours. Great vibe and great music! I ended up at an after party back in Chelsea. In the middle of the after party I get a phone call from a friend, who is close to panic… What’s going on? There’s a Scottish guy in her house who has managed to lock himself into the bathroom. I inform everyone at the after party about this situation and we’re all like “Just come here!”. When I try to give her some serious advice (Either, you have a drink, or you lie in bed and watch a movie) she realises that perhaps I am not the best person to give sensible advice right now. She called a locksmith who arrived about 2 hours later, and by this time, Kilt Man in the bathroom (he really was wearing a kilt) was furious- poor thing admitted that he had never felt so emasculated in his life. Hey, you’re only human! That’s what happens when the Lock-Less Monster rears it’s ugly face. But wait, let’s just quickly get back to the topic of Kilt Man for just one moment. I’ve met this Kilt Man before, and he is totally hot. Me and my friend came to the conclusion that if a guy can wear a damn skirt and still be an Alpha Male, he’s a total keeper. Should this be my new test? Force every dude to try on one of my dresses before I go on a date with him?
On Friday we went to Loulou’s, which was great fun. I guess I had a very diverse weekend- first Loulou’s then “rave”- why not? I always like to go on opposite sides of the spectrum. This confusing scene-switching continued throughout the evening as a result of the universal “refuse to accept the night is over” syndrome. Which is why we at some godforsaken point of the night ended up outside the post-apocalyptic relic/graveyard that is Raffles, on Kings Road. This was acctually one of my fav places back in the previous decade when Tatler still wrote about it. But now as you may imagine i stood outside like a confused, grumpy drunk in the midst of complete strangers. But just as we were about to jump in a cab and SAIL dafuk out of there two slick Swedish guys who had made Raffles their kingdom for the night spotted us moping about outside and mistook our reluctance to enter the premises as standard rookie cases of “cant get in”. They kindly explained to us that it was very hard to get into this club- but that they could make it happen- and when we complied and managed to step into this premise of many promises, they got a table in the “VIP” section. We ended up sharing a table with some kind of son of the owner- he seemed most impressed with Laura’s fur. Also impressive was the fact that I have a blog (blawgs are big in Sweden- I think they thought I was a celebrity. I did nothing to deny this.) When they commenced the mandatory Swedish custom of the “how cool is your family?” inquisition – Laura told the poor boys a story about her uncle, “who is a vicar”, who had gotten in trouble in the Swedish press for molesting choir boys. The absolute highlight of the evening (or even the weekend?) was when “Welcome to St Tropez” came on. They started dancing so violently, for a brief moment I thought someone was having an epileptic seizure. They jumped up on the couch and over the blasting music they asked us if we’d ever been to St Tropez? They explained that it was in the South of France. When the champagne bottle came in, they took one look at it and declared “This bottle…it’s very small! We have to do something about this.” And so they did! They called over the lovely waitress who also happened to be Swedish. I spoke to her briefly and she managed to ask me “What are you doing here with these Jönsar?” (Jönsar kind of translates to morons). I do hope they’re not reading this, because in all honesty they were quite sweet. But I just had to tell you about my weekend, right? And if I can’t be honest with you, my dear readers, then what the heck is the point?