The Earl Has Lunch, but Kate Moss Won’t Leave Him Alone
Safe in Torquay. I’m staying at a quaint seacoast hotel. Our chopper landed on the beach creating something of a stir. The Cornwall Constabulary detained Barry, our pilot, and only my engraved invitation from Prudentia Chalfont-Smythe of the Torquay Garden and Book Society saved me from the hoosegow. Chalfont-Smythe dispatched a fleet of Minis to whisk me and my entourage to the Chez Matisse where I am to address a luncheon assemblage of the TG & BS. There is no time for a change of clothing, so I must face the membership in my grouse hunting togs. I think Prudentia is secretly pleased with my rakish appearance, puffy vest full of shotgun shells, knee high Wellingtons, cross hatched Herringbone trousers and Cosmo Orsini ascot; my Purdies have been borne away by Haskell, the dour running footman, the dogsbody, the essential but unpleasant aide de camp.
My speech will address the disgraceful influence of popular culture in current literature. The venue is pleasant enough, a broad veranda dotted with tables, a marquee erected to keep the persistent drizzle out of our eyes. The menu is the sort of thing one expects…Good God, Grouse au poivre! I’m still shaken from my pitched battle with these creatures over the skies of Devon! Still, I must gather my wits. Prudentia is introducing me to Zadie Smith. I read several pages of White Teeth without understanding a word of the text…charming in person, though, with that insufferable poetic fellow at her side.
Ian Rankin is asking me if I arrived by helicopter. He’s a Scot, perhaps still seething over past perfidies, but we discuss golf, always a safe topic with the Scots. He’s ordering grouse. Haskell is procuring his autograph, sparing me the embarrassment. Perhaps a bit of blanc de blanc will steady my nerves before I shake hands with the ueber agent whose considering my tome, The Meaninglessness of Thought Originating in France. Johnny is air kissing Zadie, pumping Rankin’s hand. Johhny is talking about Mark Bellingham, Denise Mina, Simon Kernick, my head is spinning. What evil fate put grouse on the menu?
Prudentia is signaling. Johnny is air kissing Kate Moss. I wave. Haskell produces my speech from its three ringed binder. It’s the same speech I gave in Bath, but Johnny was not there. Now the stakes are enormous…he’s still occupied with that model. I nod to Haskell. As I approach the podium I see police cars arriving… the coppers are holding dead grouse. I flee across the lawn. Prudentia is screaming. Johnny, the ueber agent, is shaking his head. My time in Torquay is cut short.
February 8th, 2006 at 11:26 pm
Supermodel Kate Moss has been voted best-dressed woman by the style gurus over at Glamour Magazine. The 32-year-old anarchic socialite topped Glamour magazine’s annual style list for the third year running. Not bad for a woman recently embroiled in a very public drug abuse scandal.
Kate Moss edged Sienna Miller into second spot followed closely by Ms Beckham in third. Victoria Beckham has moved up the rankings, perhaps in part due to her new found career as a fashion designer with Rock & Republic. Nicole Richie is the year’s highest climber, up 33 places to number four, which probably says more about Paris Hilton than it does about Ms Richie. Halle Berry is fifth, followed by Charlize Theron, Jennifer Aniston, Mischa Barton, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Nicole Kidman. On the flip-side, the worst-dress woman is Celebrity Big Brother housemate Jodie Marsh, followed by Jordan, Paris Hilton and Britney Spears.
So what differentiates the best-dressed from the worst-dress? What’s the criteria for judging who dresses well as opposed to who dresses poorly? Indeed, what qualifies anyone to publish such a judgmental and ultimately utterly subjective list? Perhaps this categorising says more about our society than it does about the personalities being judged; it’s like a glamorous form of cronyism! The judges spew forth their subjective views based on personal friendships and ambitions. Indeed, how can anyone, even renowned designers, issue a truly objective list of who dresses well as opposed to who dresses poorly. The very essence of true style is indefinable and personal; there is no objective criteria it’s all utterly subjective and varies from one person to another and that’s what makes fashion and style so attractive and inspiring. Maybe the girls at Glamour Magazine might consider an in-house best and worst dressed woman — this would provide them with a deeper understanding of what it means to label other woman best and worst.