Last week a white invite landed on my desk. It was for the launch of Supperclub London, a trendy restaurant/bar/club/chill out concept that started in Amsterdam and has mushroomed to incorporate San Francisco, Singapore, Los Angeles, Istanbul and now my smoggy metropolis. What's taken it so long? It seems like a no brainer.
The invite was in the shape of a flattened box, and asked partygoers to get creative and bring their decorated white cubes down to the club, where the best design would win a prize. The day of the launch arrived and my invite was still flat. I scanned my desk for creative tools. A set of highlighter pens glared back at me. Too garish. It had to be in keeping with the minimalist chic of the club. Then it came to me - I had a Damien Hirst moment.
I grabbed a tube of super glue from the stationary cupboard and counted out six curiously strong mints from the box on my desk, placing a dollop of glue on each and sticking them to the centre of each of the six sides. I named it Pill Box. If anyone asked I would say it was a statement about our pill-popping society and how our increasing dependence on prescription drugs is leading to our physical and spiritual decline.
The dress code said 'all white'. Indecision hit me the morning of the party. I pulled everything white out of my wardrobe and starting putting outfits together. I decided to take the theme to the extreme and stepped out of the door in white cords, a white polo neck, white brogues, a white duffle coat and a white scarf. I looked like a cross between a polar bear and a boy band member - not my finest sartorial hour.
I rocked up to the converted warehouse in Westbourne Park with my friend fashionably late at 9pm and was confronted with a shockingly long queue snaking down the street, still slick with rain. I wasn't in the mood to queue, expecting a smallish gathering of food and drink journalists rather than a full-on club night. Every Tara, Lara and Zara was there, in their Balenciaga dresses and Jimmy Choos, air kissing the bouncers and fast-tracking the queue. A group of dejected-looking paps stood by the side of the road, cameras at the ready, letting off the occasional false alarm flash.
My friend and I were told to wait in the anaconda-sized guest list queue. The other queue, we were informed, was the VIP queue. It turns out they had spectacularly over-invited, ending up with a guest list of over 1,800, so entry had to be staggered. After 40 minutes we arrived at the front of the queue, only a velvet rope now separating us from the splendours that surely awaited inside. We kept there for a further 20 minutes, watching in frustration as the bouncers let in VIP after VIP, while we were savagely held back.
Finally, the rope was lifted and we were allowed in. Walking down the red carpet, I suddenly felt horribly underdressed. Would my snowflake look cut it with the ice-cold fashion crowd? I didn't really care, all I could think about was how good my first glass of Champagne was going to taste. But even that was a disappointment. It said Champagne on the label, but tasted more like cheap sparkling wine. Alas. My thirst satiated, albeit unmagnificently, I headed into the snow-white throng. Men with movie star bodies pranced around in long johns and nothing much else, while women busied themselves perfecting their pouts.
It didn't feel like London, but Europe, or more specifically Amsterdam. There was something incredibly camp about the place. From the white sofa-beds framing the edges and the funky house music to the mohawk-sporting dancers doing Shirley Bassey renditions. After the stress of the queue and the disappointing bar, I decided to call it a night when a deliriously thin Bowie look-alike in white skinny jeans began belting out Europop. Stepping back out into the Notting Hill night, the queue outside was as long and slithery as when I arrived. The paps raised their cameras in expectation, then lowered them again without a flash as my duffle coat and I made our way down the street.