Oh, what LA fuckery befalls me now?
Really, today is just the last hoorah in a weekend of many shades of wrong with a strong dash of what the fuck (situation: normal).
It all began with the arrival of Ireland's Finest from New York. Given our past history of collectively tormenting Parisians, uneventful wasn't going to be this weekend's strong suit. Luckily for the rest of Los Angeles the desert contained us for most of Saturday, so it wasn't really until we struck out Downtown on Sunday that things started to head south.
Sunday evening was Supper Club, at which we had the pleasure of dining opposite: Rabbit and Ping-Ping. No. Really. These are their actual names. I know this because after I had been asked to open the champagne (oh for a man that has skills...), I felt I had sufficient moral highground (here's how I was instructed to do it in Paris; yes, ten-points for pretentious twattery but I'm not named after the key ingredient for a stew) to just come out with it and ask if these were their actual names. Apparently they are...
And lest we forget 'Anything with a Heartbeat' Wales, who, no relation to the Prince Of, had hands that were extremely dextrous given how fat the fingers that dangled off of them. He added a whole new dimension to the expression 'backs to the wall'.
And so, we arrive at today. Things were just on the regular: a little light lunch at the Chat opposite a famous director and his dog who was actually sitting on a chair at the table, as if prepared to dine (FYI the armchair the dog had was of way superior class to the bench his agent was relegated to perching on. I'm just saying...), was followed by a digestive stroll down Melrose, until a hand thrust me this: