Elle Style Awards After Party

Whatever you think of celebrity culture it is hard to deny the brief vodka shot of exultation that accompanies a famous face in your mist. These people are the focus of millions of column inches and untold hours of airtime and to be amongst them is like seeing a lion in the wild after all those Attenborough documentaries. The Elle Style Awards after party, held in a difficult-to-find spot near King’s Cross, was the go to place on Monday night for celebrity animals of the groomed variety.

The experience of mingling with the breathing wallpaper of our godless world was sweetened by two free bars stocked with ever-replenished supplies of cocktails and Moet. Whilst lifting a mini bottle of Champagne and disappearing without any cries of ‘stop thief’ or – worse still – ‘card, please’ to cramp my style, the phrase ‘the banks are willing to lend money to anyone who can prove they don’t need it’ popped to mind. People will always give the rich and famous a free ride.

The setting for this free party was two big rooms; one of which was inhabited by empty tables and chairs, ghosts of the ceremony that had taken place hours before. Both had large screens projecting Elle cover girls on a loop. Mainstream stars like Gwyneth and femme-du-jour Kate Winslet got to play edgy scenesters via eyeliner and messed up hair. They were backed up by pounding bass music with the occasional Eighties classic given the remix treatment. Push it!

For some reason the cooler-than-thou ambience made me howl with laughter and that was before my encounter with Brendan Cole. A two minute interaction proved to be a catalogue of errors beginning with my pen not working and ending with my friend walking off with his Champers. The Strictly Come Dancing star endured this bungle-athon with good grace, even blowing us an air kiss as we left.

Give or take the odd transvestite in full military guard costume, the outfits were pretty low key – lots of black and white dresses with nearly all the men in suits. Henry Holland, the fashioner designer with a well-documented friendship with model Agyness Dean, wore a suit jacket sprinkled with pink hearts. This sharp-faced, softly-spoken, Lancashire export caused a buzz that seemed driven from affection. ‘Henry’s here!’ I heard one beanpole swoon.

Other highlights included going to the toilet and discovering empty cocaine baggies pushed inside the middle of a toilet roll. Oh those naughty fashionistas. Then there was the girl who bore down on me holding her shoes and crying, ‘Olivia!’ with her arms out wide in expectation of an embrace. ‘That’s the second time I’ve done that’ she said once I had put her right, ‘Olivia was in Gosford Park.’

As fun and surreal as the style zoo was it ended on a sour note when I was nearly pushed over by a mass of paparazzi with Pixie Geldoff in their sight. The stampeding, beanie-wearing snappers who lurk in the cold outside are the ugliest animals on show. However their presence, as uncouth as it may be, is a symptom of the ascendance of the 21st century celebrity to the most prized species of them all.