What's In A Name... Drop

I have just been reunited with Girl in London. She has returned from a month of globetrotting. A well needed respite and shopping. A weekend in LA at the Marmont with SF Girl was clearly a highlight. She mentioned rubbing shoulders with Francesco Clementi, Racheal Zoe, Alice Evans, Charlotte Tilbury and Erin Wasson. I have idea who these people are. Girl as always is understanding.

Last year Girl took me to NYC for my birthday for a well needed respite of my own at the Mercer. We dined quietly down the street at a small bistro sitting next to Bowie and Iman. I am a huge Bowie fan. I would drink his bathwater. He is cool, gorgeous and emanates greatness! What a birthday present, I relay this to my mother! She has no idea who I am talking about. I should have known better.

In London last week I have a meeting with an agent of Mordor. My Norwegian colleague blurts out how he loves being in London with me because I take him to great bars. The agent is curious, I wish my colleague had said nothing. I add, “It’s just a silly media club is Soho where B List celebrities congregate… Johnny Vegas, Kathy Burke, Jonathon Pryce, Christian Slater (when he is town).” The agent looks at me with disdain, he knows not of whom I speak. Agents of Mordor do not frequent this sort of establishment. I move the conversation quickly along to the East India Club. Typical.

When we lived in London, Simon Le Bon lived around the corner from us in Putney. Only 40 plus year old sagging breasted women and love rats who still wear puffy shirts and think that’s cool know who he is. Thank effin god!

Amazongirl took me to see Muse a couple of weeks ago in Oslo! We were in the mosh pit. Muse shook my world for two hours. Outstanding! I am recounting the experience the next morning around the wet pod in the office. No one has any idea of who Muse is. I despair.

Singerboy, one of my best soul mates drops a mail from LA. He has been at one his many not so famous friend’s houses jamming when Bruce arrives. Bruce is Bruce Dickenson from Iron Maiden. I like Singerboy’s mails better when he is having lunch with Jack and Peter trying to move his wife Artchick’s work. I have never listened to Iron Maiden and have no idea of who Bruce is. He wailed for a half an hour entertaining the room. Lucky them.

I had a very important London client who insisted on regularly being taken to fine restaurants and had a penchant for the Ivy. One particularly exceptional night, we were seated next to Nigella Lawson. Simon Callow and Noel Gallagher were across the room. I ran into Helena Bonham Carter on the way to the boy’s room. Salman Rushdie stood next to us chatting to Nigella for ages. My client had no idea who any of the people were. Except Rushdie whom he asked where the toilets were. Audacious and very funny.

A couple of years ago, Girl and I were sitting next to Donald Sutherland in the restaurant at the Russie in Rome, a handsome and spell binding man. Six months later in NYC we run into Keefer at the Hudson. I tell him I ran into his old boy just a few months ago, he says “what… like I effin care!” Predictable.

We see the Norwegian Royal family frequently in airports, skiing, and in Oslo. I was recently on a flight with the King. I let slip the old boy is a republican but MiL, Girl and the rest of the family are staunch royalists. He laughs and is impressed I am learning Norwegian. He is a lovely man. No one outside of Norway has an idea of who these people are. Except in Germany where they are obsessed with the Princess and her drug and sex addicted past. Obscure.

My own namesake, St. Beaverboosh, is the patron saint of cooks and wine makers. In the first century he was roasted on a spit for surrendering the poor and infirmed to the Romans who had demanded the church’s treasures adding “these are the treasures of the church”. Halfway through the grilling he is alleged to have asked to be turned over as his one side was done enough. I better understand my rebellious nature and bon viveur tendencies. I politely quiz a colleague with the name of a saint why his namesake was sainted. He has no idea he has the name of a saint! Why do I bother.

No one cares about such dross, certainly not moi!

Beaverboosh