Jourdan Dunn, Karen Elson and Kelly Osbourne are present. The Claridge’s ballroom has been transformed into an ‘eerie woodland’ with long banqueting tables and fake leaves festooning the floor. Off to Claridge’s to celebrate Cara Dele-vingne’s new handbag range for Mulberry. I remember being stuck with the person who funded a harrowing documentary on Indonesian genocide, who wanted to tell me about looking into the eyes of death, and to counteract this, glugging down three glasses of Taittinger very quickly and having to carry my shoes to the taxi. Twenty-four hours later he high-fives Prince William. I remember assuring someone from BAFTA that Tinie Tempah is a very safe pair of hands to open tomorrow’s ceremony and wouldn’t do anything controversial. My main memories of this party are daring Zoë Ball to call Michael Fassbender ‘Michael Fistbanger’ at least once. Ruth Wilson from Luther appears looking resplendent in a dress made from the fabric I used to make during long caravan holidays as a child by threading wool through a bobbin. Prince’s chum Lianne La Havas is honking her way noisily through several songs on an electric guitar while stiff-haired BAFTA matriarchs look on with tinnitus. Steve Coogan, Helen Mirren, Ron Howard, Amy Adams and Lupita Nyong’o are in attendance.ĭespite the Asprey store being rammed to the gills, they have left out many £500 plates and £1,000 pieces of glassware, which feels like a brave and foolhardy move. Some paps discuss who I am - the general consensus is Anna Richardson from Channel 4’s Secret Eaters - and don’t bother even to waste a flash on an Alexander Wang cocktail frock and Dolce & Gabbana shoes. I arrive at Asprey with my number one ‘walker’ Matthew, at the same time as Gravity director Alfonso Cuarón. The Asprey pre-BAFTA party begins at 7.30pm on Saturday, which means getting ready at about four because turning myself from White Dee from Benefits Street into something just short of RuPaul’s Drag Race is no quick process. Oh, that gorgeous moment when you tear open a chunky big envelope - or even more Satanic in wastefulness - a dispatch bike is sent to your home bearing a heavy embossed card with ‘Miss Grace Dent’, and one clasps one’s hand to one’s chest with saucer eyes and mewls, ‘They want ME!’ Obviously, this happiness quickly subsides as one scans the invite’s bottom half, which will say things like ‘Dress code: Lazy Juan les Pins glamour’ or ‘Tippi Hedren chic’, or in the case of the Mulberry London Fashion Week dinner in the Claridge’s ballroom, ‘Sunday supper’, which to any right-thinking person is a pair of old, laddered yoga leggings, an ex-boyfriend’s walking fleece, Asda fake Ugg slippers and a plate of oatcakes with Primula squeezy cheese. And accepting the Sony Brits party, or the Asprey pre-Bafta, or the Mulberry Claridge’s dinner, or the special after-after-BAFTA party at The Box, or the Warner Brits party is the very best part of party attendance. Nevertheless, I stare at my pile of invites, ‘accepting’ all of them because, despite 18 years’ experience of this, like most media people I am easily flattered. In short, I have quiet admiration for any woman who does red carpet every night. New West End Company BRANDPOST | PAID CONTENT.Tej Kohli & Ruit Foundation BRANDPOST | PAID CONTENT.
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