Thursday, 4 November 2010

Fallen Guardian

The Guardian Newspaper is never afraid to hold the government to account. Day after day, it fights for the less well-off in our society. It delivers insight, it offers original, incisive commentary. It is the scourge of "the establishment". And yet, it cannot hide its own devotion to another kind of establishment - one that'll outlive these here-today-gone-tomorrow politicians and their advisers. We're talking the world of the glamorous jet-setters we call celebs - and the establishments they frequent... such as The Ivy.

November 4: In its second-rate "Style and Culture" rag, G2, the Guardian devotes four gruesomely fawning pages to a restaurant that means little to the dispossessed, the poor, the humble, the meek, the weak and the disadvantaged on whose behalf Polly Toynbee tirelessly campaigns. The article venerates "Ivy" celebrities and the "Ivy" lifestyles that, throughout the last decade (and throughout the decadence), were synonymous with the gulf that emerged between the haves and the have-nots, the rich and the poor.

If the article counts as campaigning journalism, then the Ivy is a refuge for the starving masses... Here's what the celebs are saying about the Guardian's favorite restaurant (apparently):-

Kevin Spacey - I only go there when I haven't seen Bill (Clinton) for a while. These days, Bill is hard to please when it comes to London eating establishments. But there's a special place in his heart for the Ivy. Especially when John (Cleese) is there, doing his funny walks and being abusive to the waiters.

Ricky Gervais - I know what you're going to say. I'm that short fat ugly pathetic cynical little bloke that should hate jumped up celeb haunts like the Ivy. But in all honesty and in all actual fact, I can't get enough of the place. And who wouldn't, when on any given evening you can chew the breeze with Ruby Wax, Piers Morgan, Michael Winner, Lily Allen, Robert Mugabe, Mick Jagger, David Bowie, Saddam Hussein, Ant and Dec, Val Kilmer, Angelina Jolie, George Best, Roger Moore, Herman Van Rompuy, Edward and Mrs Simpson and the Queen Mother to name but a few. I'm no name dropper, but it's hard not to be mesmerised by all the people I said I'd never be mesmerised by. Isn't it?

Piers Morgan - I'm no name dropper. But I tell you one thing: I haven't enough fingers on my dirty little hands to count the number of famous people I've hung out with at the Ivy. One of the best occasions was when Jeremy Paxman asked me in all honesty whether I was a grubby, social-climbing, back-stabbing little creep who'd sell his own Grandmother for fifteen minutes of fame. I responded - rather wittily, I have to say - by telling Jezza that if he didn't take back what he said, I wouldn't let him partake in the Dom Perignon 1959 that I had ordered for all present. At which point he admitted that I was a man of style and substance. And then, Jezz and I, along with Beyonce, Simon Cowell, Sean Penn, Sophie Raworth, Michael Winner, Kylie Minogue and Mother Theresa of Calcutta all proceeded to drink our way through five bottles of Chateau Petrus and ten bottles of Puligny-Montrachet, whilst extolling the virtues of consumer capitalism.

Jordan - Now, I'm no name dropper. But when you've arrived like I has, you can't help noticing that loads of famous blokes all just want to be your friend. And I always say: It's not because I'm at the Ivy that all these blokes want to get into my knockers, but it doesn't half help. Some famous writer bloke called Martin Amis once came up to me when I was sitting on table three, which is the best table of all, and asked me whether he could deconstruct my boobs in his next novel, whatever that's supposed to mean. Well, I was still going out with Pete Andre at the time and Pete offered to punch this writer's lights out, until he was physically restrained by Kevin Spacey, who's apparently an actor or something.

Marty (Amis) - Far be it from me to drop names, to name-drop. For, what's in a name? A celeb by any other name is just as sweet. And Jordan meant nothing. But I was put up to this unholy act by Mick (Jagger), Tom (Cruise), Bob (Mugabe), Robbie Coltrane, Nigella Lawson, Victoria (of Beckham fame) and Anne Widdecombe - all of whom sat at table, the table, my table. And it wasn't a "tabula rasa", I can tell you. I, Mart, I'd eaten five kilos of asparagus. Yes, five whole bloody kilos. The cabbage-pee-stench that was raping the urinal as I exorcised my bladder, it made me strong, it emboldened... me. And then Mart had a vision: Mart was fucked if he didn't have the courage to ask Jordan if he could fondle her titties. Call it preparation for the next oeuvre - the oeuvre about titties. Call it what you like. Call it the fame and glamour that is the Ivy. Now that ain't name dropping. That's... that's ball-dropping. Mart's a ball-dropper. Ivy league. Ivy... League. My restaurant. It's balls.

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