If I don’t write this now then it just won’t be done. As a wordsmith, I lose the excitement to write a “piece” about 72 hours after conception. I came up with an “angle” for Saturday’s J&B Met story on Sunday evening. So it’s been just under 72 hours since then. The angle was to use the J&B Met story to talk about the Caprice tent, and then, confusingly, show pics from the day Caprice took me on a yacht to Clifton. The yacht pics were never shown on 2oceans because the 72 hour period had lapsed before I had a chance to put them up. So this, is basically a loophole.
Horses, transport or sport?
It was the J&B Met on Saturday. Some of you might know that. I was delivered to the Met in a Chrysler Voyager, by lunatics. The wine-polluted ride there was adventurous, to say the least. For example, the bass from Manny’s car’s “system” was setting off car alarms on the side of the road. I arrived at the met shaken, not stirred.
(Is that even vaguely funny? Are you finding this story funny? Is it funny at all?).
(Who am I? Why are we here?)
(Was I adopted?)
(Why does my Mother have 1,000 porcelain dolls?)
Oh……kay. So anyway, I pinky-promised myself to never arrive at the J&B Met again in anything that doesn’t resemble a helicopter.
The walk to the Caprice tent was a blur for me, as I avoided the various camera crews who, I had heard, had been alerted of my arrival. I was incognito, with shorts and black and silver Havaianas slops with tigers on them.
Setting up camp on the railing next to the Caprice tent bar, I received an sms from Guy at Tiger Tiger, following my request for a guest list that evening.
“With pleasure, Seth, you’re down for you plus 17″
I replied: “Thanks, Guy. You rock. Just one extra request please. My buddy and I are in shorts – we are the only two in shorts – can we make a plan”
Guy: “List is fine, but absolutely NO SHORTS ALLOWED” (He actually used capitals).
Me: “I understand COMPLETELY. Could you please arrange for two 32 waist jeans to be at the door when we arrive”
Guy: “Seth, you know I can’t do that”
Me: “Why not? Do you have another plan?”
And that was where it ended. We didn’t go to Tiger Tiger that night
The Caprice tent was without doubt the place to be. With a full bar on the house, there was a tendency to order vodka-red-bulls from the get go. (I FUCKING HATE “FROM THE GET GO”). Dave had organised the biggest, hottest tent in the picnic area with two full bars, four plasma screens and enough angels to kill a civilian. Amazingly, Gareth Cliff’s waistcoat was there, with him inside it. Positioned safely on the railing, we had leg room and direct service from the angels. Someone had arranged a light breeze which, with the stunning shade, felt exactly like air conditioning. Combined with a quiet joint, there was no need to move. I had an audience with Dave, who assured me we would have mist machines next year. I thanked him for constantly playing a DVD of our day on the yacht on the plasma screens, featuring, in slowmo, my 8/10 backward dive off the yacht. You just can’t buy that kind of exposure.
Horses ran, some didn’t. It would be boring to mention the horse in the main race that lost its rider. I’ll leave that to the others. Was that really your highlight at the Met? I doubt I have a specific highlight – the whole day in the Cappers tent was the highlight. God, the angels!
Come to think of it, I suppose there was ONE highlight that stands out for me. I was chatting to The Model who was being harassed by an angel wanting his number. He gave her his phone and told her to put her number in, as he returned to our conversation. Then she said that she wanted his number. Continuing our conversation, with his eyes still on me, he reached out his hand and took the phone back. It was never going to be that simple – she wasn’t finished with him. Pulling on his arm like a child begging for a toy gun in Pick n Pay, she said that SHE wanted HIS number.
“Jesus! What?”, he asked – putting our conversation on pause.
“I want YOUR number in MY phone”, she whinged. “What is your number?”
He looked at her like he was watching a car crash. After a few seconds went by, he tossed her his phone, and said, “Phone your phone with my phone” – and returned to our conversation.
Read that last paragraph again.
PHONEÃƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â YOURÃƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â PHONEÃƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â WITHÃƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â MYÃƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â PHONE!
Let that sink in.
[If you don't understand what just happened back there. Read it again from the highlighted part above that starts "Come to think of it, I suppose there was ONE highlight."]
The after party in the Kreame tent was hilarious and I am happy to report that I left the J&B Met in a good mood – the first time in five years. Dave and co., thank you for spoiling us. Caprice does it well. Always.
(And if they don’t give you a ticket, at least try your luck in the tent hosted by Johann Doms, the Don of the Picnic Area. There are no other options.)
And, while we’re all busy wanking over each other, thanks ALSO for the afternoon on the Ferretti 761 super yacht (which, second hand, quietly retails at about 25 long. Fine.)
We end off this magnificent J&B Met 2007 “piece” with some pics from the day on the yacht. Thank you all for being here.
Give yourselves a clap.
The Ferretti 761 – fine
This is where we live.
Like, the whole time.
It’s probably to do with the “radar”
The personal jukebox, Sox
No parents anywhere to be seen
Still no parents
I think I know a little boy who needs little lie down
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