I had an invitation and some friends were going, so I went to a party in a hotel somewhere high above Leicester Square and that southern bit of Wardour Street that gives Chinatown one of its edges. Where all the red and golden lanterns are hanging across the street, and you wonder if it’s Chinese New Year again, what month does that happen anyway, you forget, you never knew. And just across Shaftesbury Avenue from all of Soho’s wine bars and peep shows and over-priced Italianate coffee bars, where frothy milk is a lifestyle accessory and not something that once got yanked out of a cow.
Anyway, beside all of this but standing aloof from it was the luxury hotel, all made of glass and angles and confusing doors that revolve into each other, spinning like glue. One of those hotels where everything is mirrored and you find yourself checking out your reflection on the way up in the lift, to see if you pass, while pretending that you were born this way. This rich. Of course, the hotel is pretending too.
It is the sort of hotel that has a luxury bathroom with a big sign on it saying luxury bathroom.
It is the sort of hotel that tries to embrace a minimalist aesthetic, so people can pretend to be so rich that they haven’t got anything.
It is the sort of hotel suited to a minor Californian pornstar who came to England for the prestige and stayed for the gak.
It is the sort of hotel that has mirrors everywhere just in case your mind should wander to any subject that isn’t yourself. You think that everyone can see you but of course all they can see is themself and there are no dialogues between any of the guests, merely monologues running headlong into each other because of all the gak.
It is the sort of hotel that offers a special deal where you get to pay more.
It is the sort of hotel that would walk five hundred miles just to be the man who walked five hundred miles on the understanding that this would guarantee press coverage and a maximal number of retweets.
It is the sort of hotel that uses the word "maximal" and "transportational" and "availability scheduling".
It is the sort of hotel that says it’s for people who don’t give a fuck while very painstakingly giving all of the fucks that could possibly be given at every single level of fuck-givingness, until a whole mountain of fucks has piled up in the lobby, and every single bellboy has been summoned to said lobby to see if they can squash all of the endless fucks into all of the elevators which are actually called lifts.
It is the sort of hotel that thinks it’s an iPhone 5, only without all the colours and the touchy-feely thumb stuff.
It is the sort of hotel that is actually an iPhone 4 with cracked glass but only on the back so you can’t see it; it’s fine, it’s totally fine.
It is the sort of hotel that laughs outrageously hard into a selfie but pretends someone else is taking the picture, Oh what divine laughing creatures we are, wait, take it again, it looks better if I don’t smile, actually.
It is the sort of hotel that turns the dial up to 11. On the air conditioning thermostat.
It is the sort of hotel that wants to get fucked really hard by a father figure on a racing track in Monaco when it grows up. Or you know, something else like that because that’s a bit embarra, lol.
It is the sort of hotel that says that drinking before 10AM makes you an international man of mystery and definitely not, in any shape or form, an addict, and/or miserable.
It is the sort of hotel where people stand in the bathroom at 4AM with their teeth still hurting from the whitening gel.
It is the sort of hotel where there are no specks of dirt on anyone except for the bottom of their shoes because they walk out into the street and there it is, that fucking world again.
It is the sort of hotel that pretends not to have seen its WhatsApp messages, because it was busy watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, because it was crying.
It is the sort of hotel you go to when you want to lose yourself in ice.
It is the sort of hotel you fly into in a helicopter when you are an ice cube.
It is the sort of hotel where you come down off the drugs and realise that you are neither a helicopter nor an ice cube. In fact, you are not even a minor porn star, or rich, or famous, and you don’t want to go to Monaco or be fucked hard by anybody there, on a racing track or otherwise, because that sounds a bit uncomfortable. Also, it’s late and everybody is tired, and maybe you’re just a sack of sinews waiting for your mum to tuck you in and say that you are indeed making the right choices with your life and everything is going to be OK, go to sleep now, pretty one.
Anyway, I went to a party at that hotel. But the funny thing was that everyone at the party turned out to be lovely, and the music was nice, and we danced all night long.
Follow Sophie on Twitter: @heawood
Previously – I Have a Dream