Anyway I said last week I wouldn't talk about football so I won't. Since getting back from South America I have desperately been trying to get some money back in the bank and have rejoined the catering company that I have worked for on and off for about three years. Now this company, which will remain nameless, is one of those London based organizations that work the top end clients, think along the lines of big summer parties for the wealthier City firms and all those major celebrity wankathons like the Serpentine bash in Hyde Park and the Gorbachev Charity Ball where you get the cream of the cuntish crop rubbing shoulders together over plates of slow roasted Partridge and an endless supply of terrible Grey Goose cocktails invented by David Furnish. Regardless of the occasion theses events always seem to involve filling a room with aging rock stars, depressed hedgefunders, annoying Sloane Rangers, pretentious YBAs (who are mostly Old British Millionaires now), fawning media types, gay fashionistas and a generous sprinkling of random twats and hangers on, giving them good champagne, letting them hoover up as much coke as they can in the luxury portaloos and then forcing them into posing for pictures with Geordie Greig the editor of Tatler. Obviously pre-credit crunch London couldn't get enough of this kind of shite but this summer looks to be a lot more austere and many of my company's clients have had to reign in their budgets or stop their parties altogether.
So last nights job at the Luis Vuitton sponsored opening of Tracy Emin's show at The White Cube in SW1 was a good opportunity for both my company to make some much needed dollar and London's rich and famous to get their botoxed faces back in Tatler and the Daily Mail's showbiz column. Ok so it wasn't exactly the Bacchanal mash up I was hoping for, the White Cube can only hold about 120 people for a night like this and it was a faintly serious evening involving a dreary 45 minute talk from Tracy Emin on her 'work' but nevertheless I served drinks to some interesting people and drew a number of important conclusions from the evening.
First and foremost lets deal with the woman of the hour: Tracy fucking Emin. Now I don't want to come across as some kind of internet nerd who uses the anonymity afforded by the web to snipe at the rich and famous but in this case I really must say that the woman is a complete waste of fucking space. For starters she looks like a fucking bag lady, and really for someone with as much money as her she could seriously do with a bit of plastic surgery. Also how has such a talentless person ended up doing as well as she has? Now I'm not a completely clueless twat when it comes to modern art and some of the YBA's are pretty good especially the Chapman brothers but Emin's show last night just seemed to involve some neon lighting and a lot of 'sexual angst combined with a latent fear of never being loved.' Nothing she seemed to be trying to say was in any way original, interesting or provocative it was just an expensive version of Now magazine. Also she was fucking miserable, fucking rude, wore a shit dress and generally acted like a complete cow. Someone should tell her to fuck off back to Margate.
Ok so who else can I have a pop at? Well actually most of the other well known faces were pretty interesting, even talented characters and did nothing of much interest. Nick Roeg, the esteemed British director of seminal classics including Performance and Don't Look Now turned up, politely took a drink and then looked bored for the rest of the evening as he was forced to look at Emin's pictures and listen to her drone on and on. Others in the room included Dylan Jones the editor of GQ, Jefferson Hack the lad who knocked Kate Moss up, Ben Whishaw the acclaimed young actor, loads of fit milfs, loads of old rich men and Jay Jopling the founder of White Cube. He looked pretty depressed with life and complained when he couldn't get into the toilet. Oh yea Princess Michael of Kent turned up looking like she had had a pint of Botox injected into each temple and I wondered about asking her to banish Emin back to Kent but I doubt Princess Michael knows much of the Thanet area living as she does in Belgravia and she actually seemed rather enamored with the shite on display, so I decided against it.
So that was about it, I still don't understand the point of these occasions, everyone looks either bored or upset, the whole process cost a fortune and you end up having to pose with Geordie Greig; who turned up late looking flustered and disappointed that he still had to sit through ten minutes of Emin babbling on about beds, lights, fucking and the artistic pain of looking like an alcoholic tramp.
Until next time.
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