Went to an exceedingly showbiz party last night, which was a great success in that I only elbowed the upcoming controller of BBC1 in the face the once. Sadly they weren't serving Green Wing Cocktails, but it can't all be about us. Sometimes you have to sit back and let the little people have their moment.
I did, however, indulge in a certain amount of SexyDancing with an unknown lady, who had frankly made her intentions clear from my arrival. Sometimes I forget the simple ways of Londoners, and make undue use of my sophisticated country charm to dazzle and confuse them, which is obviously unfair of me and very poor form. Although possibly she had picked up on the weird anti-glamour of me being without any doubt the poorest man in the room. Anyway, she acertained that GW Richard's girlfriend Laura wasn't my girlfriend and inquired into my marriage status. I warily informed her that I was single, and ran away, only to encounter her accidentally on the dance floor. At which point she started SexyDancing me, so I thought 'right, you sod' and started SexyDancing back.
The thing is, being a tall man comprised principally of feet, elbows and knees, I have to navigate a crowded party in the style of a giraffe tiptoeing through a pride of sleeping lions. And as you can tell from the BBC1 controller incident, this isn't always successful. Even when I haven't injured a) important executives and b) my career prospects, I usually make it to the far end of one of these parties with unconscious posh girls draped over my elbows like a maitre d' at a particularly odd restaurant.
But ah, when the dancing begins...
Okay, I'm not that good. But I can SexyDance like a good 'un, and last night I went too far. I was expecting nuns to be bussed in, purely so they could faint amusingly, or cover the eyes of small children who definitely shouldn't have been there. And then Blue Monday stopped, and the crazy lustful frenzy abated somewhat, and I realized that a) I had frankly taken advantage of a simple city girl, whose publishing baron father would now accept nothing less than seeing the two of us married within the week and b) I had to run to get my last tube.
So I ran away (again), only the annoying bit is, I went to give her a quick (and frankly rather chaste) kiss on the cheek before I left and she squirmed away (bear in mind she's been rubbing her arse against me for at least two songs). Obviously I thought she had perhaps slipped on a vol-au-vent, or something nasty left behind by Angus Deayton, so I tried again, and she recoiled once more. Other than shouting 'bloody hell woman, I'm not trying to tongue you', I wasn't sure what to do, so I left.*
Probably all for the best. Anyway, never SexyDance in anger, that's my tip. I'm heading back to Cornwall tomorrow, where I shall recline in a bejewelled chaise-longue in one of the many glittering salons and wow the courtiers with tales of the mysterious ways of the natives here in London Village. But I thought I'd better write it down first before I forgot.
*The bells of London Church were tolling midnight as I left, and in my haste one of my trainers fell off. Still, I'm sure that won't lead to anything.