Tis’ the awards season for the film industry. The Oscars are considered the pinnacle event of the season for Hollywood. However, before the Academy Awards are handed out, the Brits have their own hullabaloo to honor this year’s films: The BAFTA’s (British Academy of Film and Television Arts). They were held the night of February 11th at the London Palladium. Quattro and I watched them live on BBC1. These Brits don’t fuck around. The ceremony was an hour long, without commercial interruptions. They hand out one award after another.
We got wind through our friend Toby that the after party was being held at the Grosvenor Hotel, which is close to our flat. At some point in the evening, we all decided that we were going to crash these lavish festivities. Fuck their couch, it’s on!
We got dressed up, scarves in tow, and headed out. We mischievously planned our entrance to coincide with the arrival of the celebrity entourages. I did a little research on the BAFTA chair people; in case I need some ammunition once I got in the fray.
We arrived at the entrance of the hotel, where I saw a good looking woman being escorted out of the building and threatened with arrest. She was an unsuccessful crasher. Somehow, we walked into the hotel unnoticed and breezed by the numerous bodyguards and security. Apparently, that was the easy part. The big party was being held in the Grand Room, but we had no idea how to locate it.Quattro got split up from Toby and I, so Toby and I ventured off into the bowels of the hotel. We walked past various conference rooms, some filled with those free gift bags, while others contained the outposts of the industry trade magazines (Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, etc). We noticed that we had somehow gotten into the service area of the hotel. We were lost. However, we could here the faint call of the music from the party, and used it as our guide. Eventually, we came upon a nondescript door that opened up into the back of the main bar area. We went in, paused, and then slowly sauntered from the back of the bar to the front. We had just gone through the wait staff’s entrance. Nobody even noticed us. We were in. The place was trimmed to the top with lavish decorations, neatly designed food, and free drinks of every kind. I opted for the Famous Grouse Scotch Kiosk, where I met their gorgeous representative, Jan. Toby and I then mingled as we tried to contact Quattro to tell him the score. He had gone the wrong way and was stuck at the main entrance, where they demanded to see his ticket (which cost $3000). He claimed he had lost it, to no avail. But he recovered quite nicely when he found the ballroom where dinner was served earlier and luckily had found a discarded ticket on the ground. He joined us shortly thereafter and we quickly implemented the T*ls*n Social Initiative™
We started at the entrance and got our pictures taken by the paparazzi. (see pic #1)
We spent our night around the dance floor scaring up random groups of girls and challenging them to dance-offs, as well as soliciting FishEyes. (see pic #2)
We left around 4am and jumped in a cab to head home when we found the ultimate straggler, walking down the street. I opened the door and waived her to jump in. This blonde hailed from Sweden and wanted to keep the party going. She kept asking us for some coke and potato chips, of which we only had one. She stuffed herself happy at our flat, but still demanded the coke. Fucking coke whores. For all her faults, the CokeWhore did have a magnificent rabbit fur jacket, which I wore without hesitation. Elvis liked it as well. (see pics #3 & #4)
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