Spot the Connection:
Commercial Chief of the Pedants and Jim 'Vic Reeves' Moir at book launch.
I couldn't bring myself to talk too much about the Vic Reeves Book Launch as, although it's tremendous fun to go out on an office soiree, frankly it's also a tad depressing stepping out with the all-female cast of Reservoir Dogs full of young blonde glamorous things
dressed in black, when you're bringing up the rear feeling like Steve Buscemi in a frock.
'Like the hat,' says Fran in a voice that hints otherwise when I arrive in my anti-frizz headware - aka a striped Beanie that once belonged to my younger son.
I feel oooooooooold. Sod it, I am old. It doesn't get any easier when you arrive at Paul Smith in Floral Street where the launch is being held and you are surrounded be skinny things in expensive clothes that you can't afford. And yes there are canapes, which just about makes up for it, but when you notice you are the only person eating them it takes the pleasure out of it a little bit. Meanwhile, everyone is scanning the room for slebs. I can't see anybody I recognise but then I don't get out much.
'That man's really staring at you?' says Sachna (slim, glamorous, young and - just for a change - brunette).
'No he isn't.'
'Yes he is. Maybe he thinks he knows you.'
'He doesn't. Believe me, he doesn't.' He's probably just wondering why the hell somebody brought their mother along. I pop another quail's egg into my mouth and decide to brave the rain rather than the Groucho where everyone else seems to be going for the after party, and I join the queue for the cloakroom.
I'm just rescuing my umbrella from a pool of water by the front door when one of the twenty-something twigs on the door informs me that there are goodie bags at the other exit.
Ooooh. How lovely. Pressies. When I was a restaurant critic it was one of the perks of the job - going to restaurant openings and leaving with freebie samples of chocolate and wine. I trot eagerly round to the exit and am given a glossy Paul Smith bag - probably the one and only time in my life I will own one.
I restrain myself from rifling through it in the street and wait until I am a sedate, but dripping, passenger on the tube, trying to look like one of those women who drop into Paul Smith for a clean blouse on the way home from work. There are a couple of catalogues full of expensive clothes and - wow - a cellophane wrapped box of what looks like... be still my beta-blocked heart - perfume. I am flushed with delight of the sort not usually felt for anything non comestible and reach into the bag to take out the very large package with excited fingers.
And then I see:
I mean, not one to look a gift bag in the mouth, and with all due respect and thanks to Paul Smith for the freebie, is it not bad enough to feel like a geriatric Liz McDonald lookalike without being given male cologne?
Was it the beanie hat that gave me away or just the tranny make-up?
I took it quite personally. Until I discovered that everyone got the same stuff and I wasn't singled out as a cross dresser.
Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.
dressed in black, when you're bringing up the rear feeling like Steve Buscemi in a frock.
'Like the hat,' says Fran in a voice that hints otherwise when I arrive in my anti-frizz headware - aka a striped Beanie that once belonged to my younger son.
I feel oooooooooold. Sod it, I am old. It doesn't get any easier when you arrive at Paul Smith in Floral Street where the launch is being held and you are surrounded be skinny things in expensive clothes that you can't afford. And yes there are canapes, which just about makes up for it, but when you notice you are the only person eating them it takes the pleasure out of it a little bit. Meanwhile, everyone is scanning the room for slebs. I can't see anybody I recognise but then I don't get out much.
'That man's really staring at you?' says Sachna (slim, glamorous, young and - just for a change - brunette).
'No he isn't.'
'Yes he is. Maybe he thinks he knows you.'
'He doesn't. Believe me, he doesn't.' He's probably just wondering why the hell somebody brought their mother along. I pop another quail's egg into my mouth and decide to brave the rain rather than the Groucho where everyone else seems to be going for the after party, and I join the queue for the cloakroom.
I'm just rescuing my umbrella from a pool of water by the front door when one of the twenty-something twigs on the door informs me that there are goodie bags at the other exit.
Ooooh. How lovely. Pressies. When I was a restaurant critic it was one of the perks of the job - going to restaurant openings and leaving with freebie samples of chocolate and wine. I trot eagerly round to the exit and am given a glossy Paul Smith bag - probably the one and only time in my life I will own one.
I restrain myself from rifling through it in the street and wait until I am a sedate, but dripping, passenger on the tube, trying to look like one of those women who drop into Paul Smith for a clean blouse on the way home from work. There are a couple of catalogues full of expensive clothes and - wow - a cellophane wrapped box of what looks like... be still my beta-blocked heart - perfume. I am flushed with delight of the sort not usually felt for anything non comestible and reach into the bag to take out the very large package with excited fingers.
And then I see:
Man!
Man?
Man?
I mean, not one to look a gift bag in the mouth, and with all due respect and thanks to Paul Smith for the freebie, is it not bad enough to feel like a geriatric Liz McDonald lookalike without being given male cologne?
Was it the beanie hat that gave me away or just the tranny make-up?
I took it quite personally. Until I discovered that everyone got the same stuff and I wasn't singled out as a cross dresser.
Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.
