So a few weeks ago, my uni announced that one of the boys from Made in Chelsea was coming to town for a night. This invoked mix reactions amongst my peers,
from the Steve Buscemi
to Jennifer Lawrence
Not wanting to jeopardise our cool by doing a full out Lawrence, my friend and I were like
...and bought ourselves VIP tickets.
For those of you unfamiliar (which will include most males), Made in Chelsea is a 'reality tv' (yeah right) style drama following the lives of a group of twenty-somethings from London with lots of money, vanity, and little social awareness. Sounds good right..?
Well it's definitely a guilty pleasure of mine, just a short moment taken out of every week to look at those more fortunate than you and scoff at their champagne and spa lifestyles.
So of the wealth of cast members, Jamie Laing was said to be visiting - this guy:
But instead, we got these guys (Andy, Spencer, and randomer):
which made no difference to be honest.
The whole night up to their entrance had been spent in anticipation; when were they coming, would we get to see them, would we end up chatting to them and instantly become best friends and get onto the next show and end up rich and famous for real...
Y'know, those kind of realistic dreams.
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| Like this, but less cute. |
Well I was to be fairly disappointed. Not only was I not asked to be on the show but I had to endure an intense bloodbath within the VIP section as pushy guys and girls armoured with 7 inch designer stilettos fought viciously to get to the front for the essential photos, or if you were lucky enough, some fangirl touching.
 |
| MOVEBITCHGETOUTTHEWAY |
In the scrum, I ended up losing my passport, keys and purse (F*CK!) and had to resort to crawling around on the floor like a less suave Indiana Jones, desperately shining my phone torch through the mass of bare legs. I got judgemental looks from those around me. I couldn't find my belongings and so I went back to attempting my way to the front yet again for, by now, a very much deserved photo. Things were still heated in the crowd, and you could see in the eyes of every crazed girl there that all they wanted to do was this. Especially me.
Yet even at the front of the VIP section, the troubles were not over. Now, after having proven your physical strength in battling past pointy elbows and stubborn torsos, there was a test of hotness. This had become Total Wipeout meets pageant show. To get through the final stages, you now had to convince the bouncers and Made in Chelsea management that you were cool and good looking enough to be chosen for more exclusive rewards. For me, standing so close to my goal, this seemed to go like this:
 |
| Don't worry Ali, I think you're pretty. |
 |
It was the same look I was giving the
bouncers. |
So frustrating! I couldn't believe that this kind of unjust selection and gender-based prejudice could take place so unashamedly. I understood now perhaps why earlier on a girl and her supporting diva posse had given me dirty looks once
she realised I was wearing the same
dress as her.
Another girl had managed to get into the extra special VIP section and she was wearing our dress.
How dare she!
It of course meant that it would be even harder for me to get in. Yet low and behold, I eventually managed to sneak through with a group of other girls and what do you know? Spencer and Andy have already left for their own after party.
So there's my first world problem rant. By this time, I remembered that I'd come with a friend. Turned out she'd managed to get photos with them but had in turn lost her keys and been kicked out of the club by a bouncer who'd had prior unrequited affection for her. Together, through some staff harassment we managed to recover our stuff and, emotionally exhausted, made our way towards a taxi. But the night did not end there.
No, rather than call ourselves a personal taxi and wait in the cold - even colder due to our prioritisation of looking glamorous, we tried to share a taxi with some others outside the club who were also trying to obtain one. We managed to find a car by pretending to be someone else, and we got in, all of us confused by how we'd ended up together. My friend and I soon learned that we'd entered into a car with some of the
Made in Chelsea entourage.
What!
The randomer (shown in a previous picture) and two other guys were on their way to the hotel where the cast members were staying ...and it seemed like we were coming with them. We arrived at some grand hotel not too far from the club. "Are you coming with us?", the guys asked indifferently. Well, a) the taxi driver had to take another call and wasn't letting us stay in the cab anyway, and b) the possibilty of a private night in with some much sought after and wealthy men?!
Hell yes! "Yeah guess so."
The Randomer walked up to the porter's desk, "Hello, I'm coming to see my brother, Spencer. Could you direct me to his room please." The old porter looked up from his desk at the five of us. "NO. There is no way that all of you are coming into this hotel now! It's against policy. And it's 3am!" This sparked a long protest between the guys and the porter, who for his age had some admirable gut and firmness. Perhaps he'd fought in a war. My friend and I stood there all the while amused and bewildered. Then came the awkward moment when the porter rang up Spencer saying his brother was in the lobby, could he come down, only to hear that apparently Spencer's brother was dead. How embarassing, the Randomer looked very much alive.
"Right, his brother's dead, get out!!!" He wouldn't even let us stand in the lobby.
But the Randomer wasn't giving up. I'm still not sure how he was connected to the
Made in Chelsea cast exactly, but he did know them somehow. He kept insisting, and the porter started making another phone call - this time though the Randomer had given up adhering to any rules and just ran up the hotel stairs.
Ohh shit haha we all thought, as we watched him dash for glory.
"I'm going to fetch the police now", the porter stated, "So you'd better leave."
For me this signaled a quick exit, but for the others this obviously meant that it was a good idea to also climb up the stairs. My friend ran past me, and not wanting to be left alone to face any police, I followed her in a blind panic. However our questionable decision was short-lived as us girls were abruptly stopped in our tracks by the second assisting porter. We bashfully burst into nervous laughter, and luckily for us the young guy seemed to share our sense of humour. He escorted us to some seats where we promised him we'd call ourselves a taxi home. After a few minutes though the old man returned, "What are you doing here! I told you to leave!" He refused our retorts about being permitted to wait there obediently and sent us outside, where we were reunited with two of the guys.They'd obviously not had any luck either but were still waiting outside hopefully. "Hey, I paid for the taxi earlier, do you girls have any money?"
What a gentleman! Our taxi arrived and my friend and I hopped in, away from the debacle that was our night.
"How can we explain this..?"
"Let's just say, shit went down. That sums it all."
5. Be wary of other customers. Sitting next to a larger than life family of four? Pay attention to what they're eyeing on the belt. If a dish that you both seem to like is approaching and you're side by side or behind them in the belt queue, make loud declarations about how you're getting that dish so as to tell them to back off, or just casually stretch your arm out and nab it for yourself. Take no prisoners. 
