The Haves and the Have-Yachts 😂
Fine Dining with Inigo Philbrick... And how crazy do you think Lauren Sanchez is making Anna Wintour this weekend?
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Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you?
So, as the world burns, more absurd stories from the glamocracy. There, on the Scottish isle of Bute, at the ancestral Gothic pile of Mount Stuart House, Lady Lola Crichton-Stuart turned 25, and boy, did her mum go all out to throw her the most decadent do!
From giant inflatable mushrooms and tepees implausibly sprouting across the vast baronial estate to dining tables groaning with lobsters, oysters, and local beef to ear-splitting bagpipers (perfect for hangovers) and fireworks lighting up the skies above the Firth of Clyde, the theme was “How Lola can you go?”
The sheer vulgarity of all the shenanigans, including rampant snogging, has triggered an extraordinary outpouring of online vitriol the world over. Apparently, the Princess of Greece got so silly drunk that she locked herself out of her palatial room—and this being a thousand-year-old castle, no spare keys were lying about and her lock-picking skills not being all that, she had no choice but to climb up half-naked through an open window. At this, she was most adept!
Meanwhile, as the revelers were busy ignoring the end of the world, a few hundred miles away, a teenage boy was actually experiencing it as he stumbled upon this:
It’s a Lego octopus that spilled into the sea from a shipping container almost three decades ago, says The Guardian.
The figurine flotsam, which was recently unearthed by a 13-year-old boy on the Cornish beach of Marazion, was one of nearly five million pieces that tipped overboard when a storm hit a cargo ship off Land’s End in 1997.
Talk about microplastics!
The lost Lego haul included 352,000 pairs of flippers, 97,500 scuba tanks, and 92,400 swords. But there were only 4,200 octopuses, so for brick-based beachcombers, the synthetic cephalopods have become the “holy grail”.
So, the world is either Saltburn or The Detectorists, which would you take?
Doofus of the Week!
Kristi Noem and her Cat of an Editor?
This week, I have to agree with
on this one, hands-down.What glorious cat of an editor told Noem that Puppycide was a good idea to put in a memoir?
Per Lyz, “Humans literally have more empathy for dogs than for other humans. Also, the states that had the highest percentage of votes for Trump in 2016 also had the highest rates of dog ownership. And some research indicates that conservatives are more likely to own dogs than cats.”
According to the book, Noem had to shoot Cricket, the dog, because it got loose from a car, went on to kill some chickens, and then bit Noem. But here's the kicker: Cricket was a hunting dog—bred to hunt birds, so basically just following the job description.
And let's be real, nibbling on some chicken and giving the governor a little nip doesn't exactly warrant a death sentence. It sounds more like a quirky way to spend a Tuesday than a capital offense.
You've got to hand it to Cricket though, going for a piece of the political pie like that. Who can blame him? He's the dog of the people, taking a stand where others wouldn't dare. Rest in peace, Cricket. You may have left us, but you'll forever be remembered as the brave soul who dared to take on an extremist doofus of the executive branch.
But what if Noem’s editor had an ulterior motive for including that story? If so, it’s a stealth bit of PR Aikido on their part to tank her. One wonders!
Doofus Honorable Mention: The Snoafer by New Balance
I do not agree with this GIF. These are not smart, they are hideous. They’re snoafers—a cross between “a sneaker and a loafer”, says The Wall Street Journal. New Balance’s latest “frankenshoe”, the 1906L, is touted as “the footwear equivalent of a spork”.
And now for some marvels…
How’s the vomit draft going?
So, another writer I adore spent last week in Reykjavik where she was told that the word “to vomit” is the same as the word for writing a first draft. Something I’ve been scrambling to do the last month. Anyway, she asked around and the locals seemed in agreement on this.
Groft uppkast, they said, means “rough draft.”
Isn’t language amazing? I suppose the lesson here is that if the rough draft is the vomit draft, one shouldn’t go on vomiting too long. It’s not an elegant phrase but a good reminder to push any instinct toward perfectionism aside and lead with the gut. Quite marvelous.
Fine Dining with Inigo…
(which we looooooooove) has a truly marvelous excerpt of the new book detailing Inigo’s downfall.Said to be the book of the year: Orlando Whitfield’s art world memoir, All That Glitters: A Story of Friendship, Fraud and Fine Art, has been released to lavish praise from the Guardian, the Telegraph, the Financial Times; with Patrick Raden Keefe calling it ‘deliciously withering and dishy’ and William Boyd celebrating it as ‘a brilliant, devastating exposé’.
A snippet—
“The ruthless and glamourous figure of Inigo Philbrick has been discussed in this mail-out at some length before. For 15 years, he was Orlando Whitfield’s occasional business partner and best friend. In this chapter, we join the action in a Mayfair hotel bar, where Orlando is trying to convince Inigo to join him on a deal.
*
There is a rootlessness to the very wealthy in the twenty-first century, a floating ease in both place and time that is mirrored, or perhaps emboldened, by a certain kind of space. Oases devoid of responsibility or obligation allow one an escape from reality that is almost womb-like in its comfort. In the Connaught Bar, if you can bag a table (it was named ‘Best Bar in the World’ by a panel of 500 so-called experts in 2020, the year in which, as I recall it, everyone had to stay home in order to get a load on), you will be surrounded by an international array of players united by one thing only: money…”
“‘I’m starved,’ (Inigo) says, sitting down heavily next to me and pouring himself a glass of sparkling water. ‘The food on Qantas is just fucking dire. Everything tastes like kangaroo shit. Let’s get some snacks.’
A waitress comes over as if by magic and greets us with a ‘Good evening, Mr. Philbrick’.
Without looking up, Inigo reads from the menu: ‘We’d have the truffle croque madam [£45] but hold the fries, the crispy sushi salmon sashimi, the shrimp satay and the Ibérico ham [three plates for £42] and a bottle of the Dom Perignon – the ’08 [£295]. And another bottle of water – in fact, just keep the water coming. That should do us for now.’ He flashes a smile at the waitress, who flashes one back. Inigo unbuttons his jacket and leans back with a sigh, glances with an eye-roll at the messages flooding in on his phone and says simply, as if it were a statement of unequivocal fact: ‘Funny world, my friend. Funny fucking world.’
‘How do you mean?’ I ask. I agree, how could I not, but I’m not sure if we’re on the same page as to why.
‘Us, dude. This!’ He casts an eye over the room and raises his arm as if he’s conjured it all and could whisk it away in an instant. ‘Madness.’ Just as I am about to agree, his phone starts to ring and the Champagne arrives and he’s gone, back into deal mode.
‘I spoke to him just now, he’s panicking but I told him we have the condition report so we should be able to invoice soon. Huge invoice. It’ll block out the sun in his inbox.’ This kind of big money banter continues for a while and I zone out slightly. It’s intended to dazzle, I guess, make you think about the destination, not the journey, the turbulence. I sip my Champagne which, despite my knowing that it’s a) vintage and should taste amazing and b) incredibly expensive and should taste amazing, merely tastes how all Champagne tastes to me: coppery and cold and fizzy with the lingering aftertaste of sweet vomit. I wash it all away with the ham, the nutty fat coating the inside of my mouth as I ponder how to pitch Inigo on the Christopher Wool I’m not meant to show him, let alone sell to him, and which feels like it’s making my phone warm – actually hot – in my pocket.
£400 pounds’ worth of snacks and fizz are dealt with in under half an hour…”
To read more…
Wait, so everyone’s ex is a narcissist?
A beyond funny piece…
But seriously, how stressed out must Anna Wintour be this weekend?
Trying to dress the impossibly tacky Lauren Sanchez whom she has declared to have such poor taste, she cannot be trusted alone with dresses. Never one to back down from a project, I think we can trust this is the current mood. I will be curious to see the outcome of this Pygmalion social experiment.
Stay safe, Lovelies, and know I’m thinking of you—no yachts required – xoxo, gotham girl
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The Detectorists seems charming! Saltburn disgusted me *vomit emoji*. And lol the snoafers just look like sneakers to me. But maybe I don't understand the nuances.
Love the title! So fun