Blagging the door at Vanity Fair (an Oscars Night Tale)
Part of my job as a showbiz columnist was attending parties all over the globe. Let’s call this the one about the night I was definitely NOT on the list.
Willkommen! Bienvenue! Welcome!
Now, this was written quite a while ago and I wasn’t sure whether it would work as a stack. But why the hell not, eh. It’s about one of the best nights of my life. Party wise, anyway.
Hopefully it makes you giggle. The above photo BTW is me recently. Let’s not pretend I looked this slick in 2010 (as you’ll see from below).
Laters!
Now, let’s not mess around. You’ve probably gathered by now, I definitely gave it a good welly wang on the partying front.
I was often first to arrive and last to leave…and hunting for the after party. But within my role as a showbiz reporter and columnist at the papers and the mags, I travelled around the globe and the most exciting part of the year was heading to LA for the Oscars. I made this pilgrimage to Los Angeles for close to 15 years in the end before leaving journalism for good.
Oscars night was always the best fun – mainly because you never knew where you’d end up, who you’d meet and what trouble you’d get into.
I’d always start off at Sir Elton John’s epic AIDS Foundation party - an event he’s raised millions for across the years.
He always had a great performer headlining that he chose specifically to support their transition to success in the States. He’d have everyone from James Blunt to Florence and the Machine and Years and Years during my time travelling across each springtime for the Academy Awards.
Unlike the actual ceremony, a stack of cash buys you a ticket to Uncle Elt’s event and it pretty much doesn’t matter where you are from or what you do. Just pay and the gate opens up nicely to let you enjoy the stars. And let me tell you this – the faces that attend are remarkable. EVERYONE thinks they are a star even though they’d probably produced a movie 40 years beforehand and quickly disappeared into obscurity following their ‘moment’. The fashion is fascinating, obviously, BUT it’s possibly the most hugely entertaining red carpet event of the year.
As journalists, we’d usually spend three or four hours on the red carpet for arrivals waiting for whoever we could persuade to stop and chat (which would be 5% of the stars attending). Then during the awards we’d scoot off to drink Margs and watch the ceremony at the gay bar Mexican on Santa Monica Boulevard before returning hours later where we’d be allowed into Elton’s after the ceremony to enjoy the after party. But it was always a battle - the notoriously spikey PR folks who ran the door would usually allow us in to work the room. But they’d make it a real “we’ll see what we can do” situation so our bums were squeaking throughout the entire day as to whether we’d get the golden pass to get in.
I met some of my favourite celebrities at the Elton party. From Jennifer Coolidge (above in 2013) to Jake Shears and Kim Kardashian to Grace Jones. It was a fun event to look forward too – and there was usually a run-in with a British celebrity who wasn’t expecting to see your face in Tinseltown. From Nadine Coyle and handsome brutes like Darius Danesh (RIP x) to Posh Spice and Gordon Ramsay – we’d always have a good interview or story situation for the editors the next day. It was exceedingly fruitful.
One particular year, 2010, really stands out as being my favourite year of attending the Oscars. But why, I hear you ask? Well, after more than a few shandies I had ideas of grandeur with my former colleague and friend Clemmie Moodie. We decided we were going to crash the notorious Vanity Fair magazine party at the Sunset Tower Hotel. Cowell was holding court at Elton’s (as you can see from above) and that felt showbiz average for us. We were in Hollywood. It was go time…
Now, I've hobnobbed with the A-List, partied my little backside off and done many things I wake up and shudder about in the morning. They usually involved Clemmie. But when I embarked on this trip in 2010 I knew I meant business. Whatever happened I had one mission – to get into that bloomin’ party. Without having a ticket (obvs).
In those days the party was like no other. You may have heard about it through people like Toby Young in his book How To Lose Friends and Alienate People and you almost definitely will have seen the pictures following the Oscars every year where the biggest names in the world gather to drink, celebrate, brag and tweak each other's nipples to prove how fabulous they are. I’ve always been obsessed.
It's the equivalent of a peacock parade in Hugh Hefner's back garden at the Playboy Mansion. All these stars vyed for the attention, adulation and they were desperate to be deemed top dog at this bash. I wanted to be a fucking peacock for the night. I wanted to get inside that party for the first (and probably last time).
I vividly remember Spice Girl Mel B (below with us on our night in 2010) telling us on the way out of Elton's event: “You goooo for it, you two. You only live once.”
I leapt into a cab for the short journey round the corner from the Pacific Design Centre with Clemmie and headed up to Sunset Boulevard where the far-more-intimate shindig was held in those days.
The first mistake we made was pulling up to the door in a yellow taxi. Nobody gets a yellow cab to the Vanity Fair bash. NOBODY. I might as well have pulled up on an old English horse and cart - it would have looked classier. Hundreds of people lined up to see the big stars exit their limousines and Clemmie and I get out the yellow cab. I mean...
Anyway, those screams of joy from the public lining the streets obviously weren’t for me or Clem in any way, shape or form.
The only things the screams did was drown out the panic in our heads about how we were going to get into the party. We were shitting ourselves. To the point I was literally rattling in my boots. With a quick scan of the situation as we approached, I could see at least three sets of clipboard Nazis before getting into the event and we had to make it through them all to make our wish come true.
Fortunately, the stars were aligned to help us out - and remarkably Alec Baldwin was our first secret weapon. Now, I'd never met Alec before - I'd loved his work but never actually met him. He'd hosted the Academy Awards that night and was clearly in the mood to party as he was leaving the event inevitably to make it to Madonna’s secret annual bash.
I looked at Clemmie with the determination of Samantha Jones in my eyes and said: "Follow my fucking lead." I power walked straight up to him, confident and with as much eye contact as my pickled vodka eyeballs could muster up, I began: “Hi Alec, you did such a great job this evening. Funny, to the point and you reeked of old Hollywood up there. You’re a great host.”
He looked at me as if I was a deranged stalker and - unfortunately for him - I didn’t stop there. “You know, I’m from London - we met there on your last trip,” I continued.
“Oh God of course, hey man – how are you?” he said.
“Yeh, and I loved you in Big Brother – I thought you came across brilliantly,” a clearly confused Clemmie piped up. NO CLEM THAT WAS HIS BROTHER STEPHEN BALDWIN. Mega Lolz. I shut Clem down in an instant with a look that resembled Tilda Swinton in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. You know, the one where she turns Mr Tumnus into an ice sculpture.
Turning the focus back to Alec, “You ought to come over there more. People like you in London.”
Alec, looking at us like he may have met us at a random party for all of ten seconds, replied: “Well thank you so much man – you’d better get yourself in.”
“Yes of course,” I said as I let go of his hand making sure the first set of security guards saw my association with the host.
“Well, you enjoy it you two and I'll see you in London soon," he said getting into his slick blacked out town car. That was the way to travel.
Our chance liaison with Hollywood Royalty had been witnessed by the second clipboard Nazi too and the gorilla sized security guard stepped aside at the second post as we approached. I looked at Clemmie and whispered, "one post left - eye contact, tits out and walk fast into the party."
I decided for that night I was going to be the star - and there was only one thing for it…I'd be a star on that red carpet.
I walked with my head held high – saying hello in a hugely obnoxious way to radio reporters and GMTV’s Carla Romano waving as if I couldn't possibly "stop to speak" and trotted along for dear life.
Four more steps forward and we were in.
I had just bypassed two lines of security and name checkers. I immediately had a text from a PR friend in London. “Erm, I just saw you walk behind the GMTV guys into Vanity Fair. Are you for f***ing real?”
Then my mother chipped in: “You just walked into some party behind Tom Hanks on GMTV!”
Yes, I bloomin’ well did. Our ballsy tactics had worked. We had fucking made it IN.
By this point we were standing at the epicentre of the celebrity world. A-List stars are ruddy everywhere. I’m inside the hardest party to crash on the global showbiz calendar.
That year it was small and exclusive. Picture this. Jeff Bridges is on the dancefloor (as seen below with Clem), Cameron Diaz whizzes by and Kathryn Bigelow holds court with her Hurt Locker colleagues on a luxurious white leather seat.
Magnums of Moet are being poured by waiters dressed in the finest uniforms known to man – mildly resembling the Jetsons. With enough real trees and bushes shipped in to transform usually sparce venue into a forbidden forest, lit with flickering fairy lights, it’s like being in a glitzy garden of Eden.
Clipboard Nazis were obviously at every inch of the entrance, scanning the crowd for interlopers, cameras flashed at the arrival of each big name and hundreds of movie fans line the streets of Sunset Boulevard trying to get a glimpse of their heroes.
The combined wealth of the room alone is probably close to £20 billion and every big name in Hollywood stops by.
Admittedly back then I prided myself with being able to blag my way into any event. I’ve partied with Mariah Carey at the Mandarin for her private Halloween bash, found myself on a celebrity’s yacht on more than one occasion and danced till dawn with Paris Hilton following the Brit Awards.
But the Vanity Fair party is in a whole different league. It’s the Crown Jewel of the celebrity party circuit – something every showbiz journalist one day believes they will be invited to (but never actually does).
I quickly discovered it was easy to see why this party is THE bash to get into.
It was exactly what a real event should be. No VIP area whatsoever with some two-bit reality TV star – just wall-to-wall A-Listers. The décor was comfortable but not too opulent. Candlelight lit the tables and waiters seemed to whizz by at the speed of light but were not in any way obtrusive. Whatever drink you fancied was made from scratch for you and cocktail servers ensured there was never a queue for a drink. It also wasn’t over-crowded. So exclusive that everywhere I looked there were Oscar statuettes standing on the side. I wanted to hold one – immediately.
I spotted Sandy Powell, the winner of Costume Design for The Young Victoria, congratulated her and politely asked if she would mind me holding it. And wow – those bad boys are heavy - like bricks! I quickly moved on to nattering to Hurt Locker star Guy Pearce, who was congratulating the woman of the evening – Best Director and Best Picture winner Kathryn Bigelow.
Best Actor winner Jeff Bridges nearly dropped his Oscar twice and I even had to steady him on his feet as he twirled Crazy Heart co-star Maggie Gyllenhaal around the dance floor.
Admittedly it was one of those parties that I wanted to be in – but, for once, I didn’t want to be noticed. The thought of being thrown out was harrowing.
So, I just took in the sights - Peaches Geldof curled up with then boy toy Inglorious Basterds star Eli Roth, Rachel McAdams looking bored as she mingled with studio execs, Cameron Diaz twirling around the dancefloor without a care in the world. Then there was Russell Brand - who to be honest looked bored as hell - cuddling his then bride-to-be Katy Perry.
The one thing that wasn’t uber glam about this party was the canapes. Mini Krispy Kreme doughnuts were offered stacked high on trays! Yuck. Fortunately, luxurious red velvet cupcakes were slightly better - each of the teeny-weeny cakes had a nominee’s first name and face emblazoned on top.
After a booze-drenched evening I gobbled down a Jeff, a Sandra and a Carey Mulligan and it was kicking out time. As I walked down Sunset Boulevard with barely a car in sight at 3am I realised – this was the night I made a dream come true.
Needless to say, the following year then Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter had taken sufficient improvements on security to ensure journalists like me didn’t get in. It was a rabbit warren of huge human steel gerbil lanes to gain access. There wasn’t a chance of being able to blag the door.
Look, it wasn’t the most controversial year (in fact the awards and the party were quite vanilla) but we got in, made our wish come true and came out beaming with joy to have made it. Whilst all the big stars went off to Madonna’s bash to continue the night, Clem and I headed to Ed’s Diner for a burger and a beer in our tuxedos.
Trademark showbiz journalist behaviour…in those days you never really wanted the party to stop. Nowadays, 10pm bed for the win.
Until next week, Kids.