"Do you want me to blow that up your arse, or are you going to fucking sniff it Big Boy?!?"
Yikes. I was in an 11-bedroomed luxury Southfork-style mansion on the Bishops Avenue in Hampstead. A lady of intense and striking sexual beauty was semi-naked wearing just suspenders, bra and high-heeled boots, trying to seduce me into snorting a line of cocaine off an expensive Gucci compact mirror.
It was 1.30 in the morning. I was stone cold sober. I have never taken drugs before in my life and I didn't intend to start now. For the past 3 hours I had been stuck in a party from my worst nightmares, being offered i) illegal substances ii) no-strings sex and iii) 'some light whipping'.
I did seriously think of texting Michaela and pleading with her to come and rescue me!
THIS WAS NOT THE FUCK WHAT I WAS EXPECTING!
And where was that bastard Mark Cooper when I needed him? He'd abandoned me as soon as we arrived. He spent the whole car ride confusing the fuck out of me with in-jokes and witty references to musical groups that just went straight over my head. Showed off by texting Chris Martin a couple of times. And then told me that "Sadie would be turning up later with some bisexual friends" and to just "enjoy the ride, mate".
[As a sidenote, I should mention that I have recently taken to playing the Coldplay song 'Yellow' before going into Controller meetings. It fires me up!]
Once inside the house, I felt like a (very nervous) extra from Eyes Wide Shut. I took quite a few deep breaths and reminded myself that I was only here to check out the Renegade Burlesque girls. It was GOING TO BE ALRIGHT... I was on a research trip not a networking night. I had *nothing* to prove to these glamourous people. They didn't need to know me, and I didn't need to know them. Right?
Wrong. This was a world I'd always fantasised about, but never dared get close to. Their outright 'danger' scared the fuck out of me. Illegal drugs were being taken in full view of everyone; girls were snogging each other (and a lot more) with no-one batting a eyelid. I felt completely petrified by the whole event. What if someone was to recognise me? Theakston's career never really recovered from his night of sex, drugs and rock n roll.
Think of the scandal of someone of *my* importance being caught up in all this debauchery....
What disturbed me most was why *everyone* seemed so obsessed with sex? What has happened to the kind of soirees I was fortunate enough to enjoy at Oxford where we had the odd glass of Sherry and then discussed Important Stuff like Proust etc??
Modern culture disturbs me greatly...
2 comments:
I'm delighted and relieved to learn of your taste for Proust. I did have you down as strictly a Clive Cussler man, more fool me.
Proust's influence on your chosen medium has been slight. Off the top of my head, I can only think of Bob Mills's 'In Bed With Me Dinner' and 'Swans: Which Way?', in which Bill Oddie and George Steiner come to a misunderstanding.
May I suggest the commissioning (or whatever you call it) of 'MPTV', in which Fry & Jarvis (les non-pareils de voix) read the whole fucking thing. In French, of course, because Scott-Moncrieff was clearly off his tits.
If you need some itchy trailers for the 'Two Pints' fuckwits, this fellow is right on the money in that department.
Surprsied to see you get so hot under the collar - probably only a minor blip. Why not turn the situation to your advantage and get some of these girls on a reality docusoap kind of trip. It would be sexy, edgy and create the kind of "itchy reality" the kids really bite for these days.....it would also add another TV 1st to your already extensive collection. I feel an MBE is on the way for services to TV.
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