There was a dark, sinister secret the Fag Hag had been hiding for way too long. Every morning it had nagged at me like an aching cancer, kept me awake doing more frantic tossing and turning than a skinhead in Hard On. I’d kept this dirty, horrific shameful truth to myself, knowing that one day the truth would come out, but until then I’d nursed this horror privately. And then last night – I heard my humiliating dark sin finally exposed to all and sundry…
‘Emily’s never been to the Ivy Club before!’ uttered a friend in horror as we headed for that very locale.
Oh Great. Why don’t you just shave my head and march me through the streets whilst you’re at it.
‘Well, just the club – I mean I practically live in the restaurant! ‘ I protested. But there was no going back. Finally the shame was out there. Hell maybe I’d even get a deal to write one of those mis-lit memoirs out of it, I could call it ‘Left out in the Cold – one woman’s harrowing journey back from the brink’.
So I got into that big glass lift – which, incidentally, was tres Oligarch paying prossie to poo on coffee table I thought – I checked in my pleather jacket, and waltzed through that door like I owned it.
‘Emily, those are the toilets,’ hissed a friend helpfully. (Well maybe I needed a touch up.) Redirected I headed up to the bar and ordered a Bloody Mary – and who was the most glittering person I should clap eyes? Andrew Lloyd Webber. Well Ambassador you really are spoiling us. And if that’s the best you can do, Ivy Club, I’m sticking with a Wetherspoons where at least you can guarantee bumping into anybody who’s ever had the pleasure of auditioning for Simon Cowell.