Saturday night at the Groucho Club: I felt apprehensive all day – after all, I was going to a party hosted by friends of my flatmate, and felt like a bit of a hanger on. I talked to Mella about it and she quite properly said that it wasn’t like we had a chance to go to the Groucho Club every day, that I should just get over it and try and have fun. So I arrive at the party around 10 and within a few moments have found Nick C, Kate, Mella and Rachel sitting chatting in a corner. We muck around for a bit, get some drinks, and sway in between the hordes to have a look around…
The party is held in two rooms on the side and back of the Groucho club, and we don’t really have much contact with the main part. I’m a little disappointed about this, since an old friend of mine, Tall Michael, works there. I thought it would be really nice to stumble upon him (as it turned out he wasn’t there anyway). One room looked a bit like ballroom only much smaller – a fair amount of faux glitz on the walls, a decent amount of light and a tressle-tabled bar on one wall. The other room was much more interesting – comfortable sofas, a bit more darkness, and a selection of DJs.
I had been advised to do a little celebrity spotting – although almost everyone at the party worked in an even more media occupation than mine, and were either singularly unimpressed by celebrity or were trying extremely hard to pretend to be. That’s not to say that this was a celebrity party – most of the people there were behind the scenes film and media people of various (young) levels. It reminded me a bit of the parties that Kerry and Sean took me too in Hollywood while I was there, although with less gay people…
Around 11.30pm I bump into Ben Chaplin. I say “bump into” because I’m too embarrassed to go into the complicated arrangements that I engineered in order to be in a position to “bump” effectively. After a singularly brief exchange we go our separate ways, at which point for some reason I feel compelled to pat his stomach. I have absolutely no idea why. He cheerfully exclaims, “see you in a bit, yeah?”, with a big grin on his face, and that’s the last contact I have with him in the evening.
At this point (having been rounded set upon by Kate and Tara for my appalling behaviour), we set to dancing with great enthusiasm. The DJ that we weren’t so keen on has been replaced by the lead singer of the Bluetones, who is a tiny bloke, with infinitely cooler taste in music. I’m too embarrassed to ask him to put on a Moby track, even though the album is lying right in front of him. Kate decides to ask on my behalf, but he tells us that the next DJ is more into dance, so we should leave it until then. Disappointed we continue to dance. At which point, he puts on Talking Heads. I am so delighted that a plant a smacker on his cheek. Kate looks on, amused but exasperated by my increasingly entertaining/exasperating behaviour…
I have a sit down at this point, because I am increasingly worried that I look like some form of scaffy monster with increasingly bad hair. But this allows me the thrill of watching Kate in her tight red dress and (hidden) black proppy-up underwear thing dance around likea maniac with Rachel. I am summoned up by Mella at an opportune moment, and we bounce around franctically to whatever is playing at the time.
By about 1.30 I am considering leaving – I’m completely exhausted. While the others resolve some of the tensions of the party behind the scenes, I decide to go to the loo. I spend about a month and a half waiting for the cubicle to empty (only one punter, a hundred years of waiting). When it does open, this bloke emerges who look remarkably like Jeremy Northam only thinner and with longer hair. I mention this resemblance to one of my friends who stares at me like I’m some form of root vegetable and assures me that if he looked like Jeremy Northam and sounded like Jeremy Northam, then it probably was bloody Jeremy Northam.
Duly chastised, I drink more… About 2.30 we emerge from the club, eyes blinking and get in a cab. And then for some ungodly evening the whole way back we belt out versions of Nina Simone’s “My Baby Just Cares For Me” as we drive down the Edgeware road… All in all, an entertaining evening…