Well I’m sitting here in my lounge room, in the midst of 4 boys who I don’t know, ignoring my existence, talking about the devastation of hot girls who are lesbians and exchanging strange packages they’ve bought with illegal substances supposedly from India. OOP! Another one just entered. And I learn the girl he had sex with last night lived with the girl he had sex with the night before.
Awkward.
Last night I was hanging out with rich people’s coats in a cloak room that belongs to Plaisterer’s Hall – an amazing piece of Victorian architecture, massive sparkling chandeliers, gold and velvet interior. Massive portraits of important people who I don’t know. Important historical scripts written in “ye old english” framed on the walls. The Queen was there a week before I was.
This is my life. Weird moments where I go… “How did I get here?!”
Two weeks ago I accidentally got a job as a stripper. Once I started my, what I thought was a bar job, I find out that “On Thursdays we all dance on the bar and take our tops off”.
Ooookay… I feel that should have been something mentioned in the interview, or at ANY stage before I got the job… “Must be ok with taking clothes off in public”.
No thanks. I only give private shows.
Last week I nearly spilt wine on Valentino. Not Valentino the dress; VALENTINO, the man who makes the dress! I maintain that he was the one who nearly ran into me, but he didn’t really acknowledge my existence, as I have less than 5 billion pounds in my bank account. Which made me feel okay with wanting to tell him to lay off the fake tan… “You look like a Jaffa Mr Valentino.” I would say with a polite smile, “More wine?”
Two weeks ago I was at the national cricket awards. Well that just sucked. I mean cool, I get to see Strauss and Vaughn, but not so cool when we embarrassingly lost the Ashes this year! I swear, it’s all I heard all night… “We won the Ashes” and “Australia lost the Ashes” and “We won the Ashes”…
I get it. We lost the Ashes.
Lilly Allen was there that night too.
At a local club some French guys started talking to me. They were hilarious and I was trying to talk school girl French to them, which really only varies between “My name is Amanda and I am a female” to “How much is this baguette?” Then they told me they were here with Ashley Cole…
“Who?”
“ASHLEY COLE”
“Dude, saying it louder doesn’t give me sudden revelation into who he is.”
So the next thing I know I’m rushed over to this drunk guy leaning on a bar, lapping up the attention of skanky little drunk girls and kissing them. He looked like a bit of a dick to me so when they introduced me I was like “Yeah look, I don’t even know who you are”. Then went back to asking about baguettes in French.
Turns out he’s one of England’s biggest soccer players. Plays for Chelsea. Is married to Cheryl Cole, a big star here, a singer and judge on… X-Factor?
Oops.
On the weekend I worked in a super-rich restaurant at Wembley Stadium. The Bobby Moore Club. It costs you 18,000 pounds for a seat at a table in this club. That’s $36,000 – Australian (I still convert everything to Oz dollars). I feel that a single champagne flute there was worth more than my life…
Leaving Wembley was cool though. Not rock-star cool. More like the kind of cool where you have to try it once but never again. Like a peanut-butter-and-vegemite-sandwich kind of cool. The stadium is massive – MASSIVE – and when you leave to go to the station there’s a massive pedestrian traffic jam. The station is a bottle neck and you’re literally stuck in a massive crowd, with no way out. Cops right out of an ABC cop show are everywhere, all up the sides. There are rows and rows of them just standing on massive horses (I half want to pull a horse’s tail, just to see…). I’m not sure I quite understand the horses… Helicopters fly over head and flash their lights over the crowd and you get the sneaking suspicion that someone on the news is watching you so you smile, just incase out of thousands of people yours is the face they’re looking at… Once you get to the station you turn around and literally, as far as the eye can see there is a massive exodus of soccer fans, like sardines, British sardines, singing some drunk version of “The Balmy Army”. Mega cool…
Until you get into the station and there’s a massive rush to the train and you feel like you’ll be pushed on to the track…
Here, they announce it… “Due to someone jumping under a train the such-and-such line is closed today”. They do this so you don’t think any delays are their fault. The first time I heard this I was shocked and expected like, a minute’s silence to be announced or something. I looked around but no, everyone goes about their business. Just another day in the life of London…
I love London though. It’s always busy, very historical, always interesting. The southern English are all posh little pretty boys, the northern ones who live here are a lot more fun. The Irish are a crack up and hard to beat in drinking, due to their incredible ability to drink Guiness with ease. And the Scottish are a blast who don’t seem to have bad tempers and are always laid back, even the rich ones.
I love it here! Though, in saying that, those boys I apparently live with are on the balcony smoking weed and by default of being within 10 metres of them (There’s no choice, my house is that size, like 10 by 10 metres…) I’m probably high myself. If not, my clothes hanging on the balcony are DEFINITELY high… Adds a whole new meaning to “happy pants” now, doesn’t it!
