Hen Night...

"I've got you a gig", barks my agent, casually upending an espadrille to catch some stray caviar in her outstretched palm. "Sarah Michelle Geller's hen night", she continues, pausing rather awkwardly mid-sentence to light the filter end of a pink Sobranie cigarette. There's no accounting for taste. "She's finally tying the knot with Sacha Baron Cohen. It's at Paul Michael Glazer's old Ocean view place, just along from Lisa Marie Presley's pile. You're the compere, so dress down. And *no* smut!" And with that, she's off, a shower of blini crumbs cascading down her cleavage.

I pull up outside the rather grand old baronial-style mansion around 8pm. Once inside the cavernous hall, I start setting up, improvising an old shoe rack into a makeshift ukulele stand. Christ only knows where I'm going to hang the stirrups. Before too long, the first guests start arriving. Sarah Jessica Parker wafts in wearing an Yves Saint Laurent two piece and Jean Paul Gaultier bovver boot combo. She's soon joined by Julia Loiuse Dreyfuss and the two are soon deep in conversation about a new Fanny Blankers Koen biopic, with a screenplay by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala. Then the support act arrives; Mary Tyler Moore. I had no idea she was still going. I had no idea she was *bald*. She's bought the fan club - Shirley Ann Field and Leslie Ann Down - both wrecked as arseholes and paying frequent visits to the powder room to top up. I don't know - they come all the way from England to watch their old friend performing on stage only to gab away on their mobiles incessantly.

Courtney Cox-Arquette makes a grand entrance on a skateboard in a see-through all-over body suit embroidered in the crucial areas with a crazy Lee Harvey Oswald motif. Still hasn't the barest inkling of any concept of personal body space. I'm pleasantly surprised to see a couple of familiar faces from the old country. Rachel Heyhow-Flint and Lucinda Prior-Palmer are earnestly arm-wrestling for some whelks in a tub autographed by Anthony Worral-Thompson. Robyn Wright-Penn arrives, a review copy of the new Barbara Taylor Bradford novel under her arm. She's swiftly followed by Jamie Lee Curtis. who immediately starts boring anyone who will listen with her new Arthur Quiller-Couch fixation and making unseemly observations about Daniel Day-Lewis's accents. And all the time Helena Bonham-Carter just sits there in the corner, scowling malevolently, occasionally picking at bogeys and rubbing them up and down her crotch area like a gormless, gothic retard.

I'm just about to introduce Mary Tyler Moore's shining pate when a hush falls upon the room. Every head turns to the door where, replendent in Manolo Blahniks and a Louis Vitton thong stands none other than.....Naomi Campbell.

*Talk* about spoiling a mood!


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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