Creeping On D-List Celebs in London

Creeping On D-List Celebs in London

There is no denying that rejection is the key to everlasting love. It’s got nothing to do with making compromises, giving birthday blowjobs or curbing your tequila intake: just don’t return a lover’s booty call or take it one step further and dump them and they will adore you forever. The obsession rejection fuels is the only guaranteed means of securing infinite passion, so long as you can deal with its side-effects (ranging from double texts to restraining orders).

When I lived in London for a uni exchange, I was once a victim of this behavioural phenomenon. By once, I obviously mean a million times, but this one was particularly poignant.

Made in Chelsea is a British reality TV show about a bunch of twenty-something twats with trust funds. To give you an idea of its content, I’ll share a quote from the opening credits:

“You may have heard rumours that Chelsea is an exclusive world of royals, aristocrats and playboys, where the gossip is as startling as the prices. Well, it’s all true… You might say that we’ve got it all, but having whatever you want can make choosing that much more tricky.”

Thankfully, most shows of this nature never make it past their pilot episode, but somehow, MIC did.

It was a regular Monday afternoon in November, meaning I was waking up in my council flat in Ladbroke Grove with a hangover. All of a sudden, my dear friend Olivia called me in fits of ecstasy and hyperventilation.


Being rather pretentious herself, Olivia felt she was a prime candidate for Season 2, and watched the show religiously. I groaned, but my apprehension soon turned to keenness when I read the Facebook event’s advertised drink prices: £3 for double servings of spirits. But unfortunately, the event was sold out.

Not one to be deterred from cheap alcohol that easily, I emailed the guy running the show and tried to convey via text what nice girls Alana and I were, and how DTF Olivia was. I think I used the word Aussie nine times in two sentences, knowing what a soft spot British males have for us. It worked, and moments later I had a reply ending in kisses telling me it was all sorted; I just had to ask for Matthew on the door.


We rocked up at 10pm in our tightest bandage dresses – the first of many desperados there. Matthew ushered us inside to a room with its sides elevated and roped off: the VIP area in which the cast would later be appearing. It was empty bar a skinny, dark-haired teenager who looked like he’d been breastfed heroin. I made a beeline for the bar.

“Three double vodka, lime and sodas please,” I smiled. The bartender gave my lack of false eyelashes and £20 dress a disapproving glance before mixing up the beverages.

“That’ll be 36 quid,” she replied. Aghast, I looked to the manager.

“Um, excuse me, you’ve charged me £12 each for these double vodkas when your website says they’re supposed to be £3…” I began.

“Show me,” he challenged. I whipped my shattered iPhone out and found the Facebook event, nonplussed by the disapproving stares my stinginess was attracting. I was right and he was wrong, but he wasn’t budging.

“Typo,” he shrugged, “£36.”

Enraged, I handed over my battered travel card, foreseeing a week’s worth of Tesco’s soup for dinner. I scooped up the drinks and walked back to my friends, who were sitting on a bench opposite the roped-off area.

“This bench is reserved for 11 o’clock,” another bartender with three hairs per eyebrow informed us, “so unless you want to buy a £600 bottle of vodka, you’ll have to move soon.” Olivia shot her a disgusted look that said Don’t you know I’m wearing Burberry? and stalked off to buy some red wine. All of a sudden, the dark-haired boy from VIP stumbled towards us.

“Would you girls like to join me at my table?” he slurred, waving three wristbands. His clothing was torn and he looked like he’d stopped washing his hair in tribute to Kurt Cobain’s death in 1994. He was also covered in an array of tattoos, most of which looked like they’d been drawn on with a pack of Faber Castells.

“Sure!” we shrugged, wondering how the fuck he had got past security.

The boy introduced himself as Alexander* and the middle-aged companion he was with as his “minder” Pete.* As we settled in to Alexander’s booth and his bottle of Belvedere, we began to pay the price of fraternising with rich wankers: having to listen to their shit chat.

“Do you girls know the show Made in Chelsea?” Pete asked.

“Ohhh… we’ve vaguely heard of it,” we replied, lying through our teeth. “We have no idea who the people on it are though.”

“Just you wait!” Pete grinned.

“Pete’s just here to make sure I don’t do anything naughty,” Alexander interjected, his nostrils rimmed with white powder. “You girls can all stay at mine tonight. I’ve got seven houses and all the keys are just here,” he said, swinging a chain. “I’m only 19, but I’ve been addicted to coke since I was 15. I’ll probably die soon. Ha!”

Alexander continued with his self-indulgent ramblings, dropping his famous father’s name into the conversation at least once per sentence.

“I’m going to be on Made in Chelsea next season,” he drawled. “It’s probably not going to be good for Daddy’s business – I’m a bit of a bad boy.”

Thankfully, he was interrupted by a sudden eruption from the crowd: three of the show’s stars had just entered the building clad in bespoke suits and Raybans. Waving like the Queen at the thronging mass of screaming fans, the trio strode straight into the VIP area and sat at a table two down from us.

“I’m pretty keen to hook up with one of those cast members,” I admitted in a whisper to Olivia.

“Same,” she replied. Olivia didn’t have to wait for her dreams to come true – soon enough Alexander (who actually turned out to be 16) was slobbering all over her face, an advance she succumbed to in order to get passively high from his bodily fluids.

But before they could get to third base, the pair were interrupted by the Made in Chelsea stars, who had come over to steal some of Alexander’s cocaine under the guise of saying hello. They greeted us in that stupid rich-people way, kissing the air as they banged our cheeks with theirs. Naturally, I feigned ignorance as to their identities and tried to look as bored as possible in an attempt to disguise the fact that prior to tonight, my only VIP experience had been at Priceline.

When the boys finished powdering their noses from a vial slung round Alexander’s neck, they strutted back to their table and placed a rope around it for added security. Brimming with liquid confidence and desperate to avoid Olivia and Alexander’s proposals for a threesome, I swanned straight over to them and stepped over the barricade, dodging the bouncer’s attempts to put me in a stranglehold. I’d decided the cast member named Terry* was probably the least likely to go bald first, but before I could reach him, I was intercepted by someone gangly wearing three times the amount of jewellery I was. It was another cast member, Dom.* I opened my mouth to protest – a move he obviously interpreted as consent, as he immediately bent down and started snogging me.

Despite the fact that he tasted like a packet of Winnie Blues, once I had recovered from shock I conceded to his advances and kissed him back. The crowd went wild, whipping out their Blackberrys to capture my pash rash on film. Dom and I remained liplocked for the remainder of the evening, parting only when the club staff escorted him backstage for complimentary lines of cocaine. Whenever I was left alone, I was swamped by Made in Chelsea fans and pelted with queries about where I get my hair done, what brand my dress was and where I’d bought my £2 earrings.


After about two hours of repeatedly attempting to fob off Dom’s attempts at a public fingering, I was ready to bail.

“Come back to mine,” my suitor drawled. “I want to have sex with you right now.”

I paused to think about it, ignoring his arrogant presumptuousness and contemplating breaking my no-one-night-stands rule in light of his celebrity status. Our children could go to Eton. We could have pet ponies. I would finally learn what order to use all those extra knives and forks in.

“Mm, maybe. Let’s get outside anyway,” I said, suddenly remembering I was wearing Spanx and hadn’t shaved my legs since 2004. Hand-in-hand, Dom and I walked up the stairs and onto the streets of Mayfair, blinded by the flash of paparazzi who genuinely consider working for the Daily Mail to be a career. I stuck my tongue out at the lady bouncer who had tried to kill me earlier as I left, and she scowled.

“Isn’t that your mate?” asked Dom, gesturing at what I had believed to be a stack of newspaper. My eyes fell upon Olivia. She was rolling around in the gutter in her now-ruined Burberry trench coat, giggling and vomiting, completely immobile. I groaned, my chances of appearing on next week’s episode of Made in Chelsea disappearing faster than Olivia’s stomach contents.

I turned to Dom. “I can’t come home with you. I have to take Ol home,” I said. He swore and stomped about for a bit, clearly not used to being turned down by someone without a trust fund.

“I could come back to yours?” he suggested, transforming back into a gentleman in an attempt to resecure a root. I shook my head firmly, not bothering to explain that a fourth person wouldn’t fit in the bedroom we shared.

“Don’t worry,” he said soothingly, “once you get home, just ring me and I’ll send a private car. I need to see you again.” I nodded and gave him a passionate farewell kiss before telling the waiting cabbie my address. The taxi driver looked up at Dom, down at Ol and then back to me.

“A hundred quid,” he quipped.

“WHAT?!” I shouted. “It cost us a tenner to get here!”

He just shrugged and got back in his car, whistling like a man who gets his kicks from the smell of desperation.

“Pretentious cab cunt!” screeched Olivia through her vom.

I rolled my chunderous bestie to the bus stop, and somehow managed to drag her onto a red double-decker driven by someone too old to protest her intoxicated state. Olivia put her head between her legs and continued to regurgitate Belvedere. Once back in the flat, I placed her lovingly on the carpet next to my single bed and curled up in frustration with a bag of Doritos. I had about 10 missed calls from Dom, but had decided not to bother – I would text him tomorrow instead, and he would thrive off the rejection.

When we woke up the next day, Alana and Olivia jumped on my bed excitedly to cyber-stalk Dom and bask in our brush with fame. We found his Twitter account, and to my delight he had just sent a Tweet. Would it be a photo of last night? A shout-out to his new love? A forlorn message lamenting the fact that his Australian beauty had been snatched away at the last minute?


GF? I thought. But my initials are GC! Oh.

Goodbye Made in Chelsea guest appearance. Farewell ponies. Au revoir dessert forks. I had been rejected – and by a complete and utter wanker at that.

And I had never been more in love.

*names have been changed

Facebook Comments