Amy Cooper
I'm the host; get me out of here
At parties, it's fun being a detached observer. You can sail through other people's big events, blissfully unaffected by how many guests misbehave or don't turn up or hate each other. If the booze runs out or the canapés are hideous, it's someone else's problem. All I've ever had to worry about is remembering it all the next day.
At parties, it's fun being a detached observer. You can sail through other people's big events, blissfully unaffected by how many guests misbehave or don't turn up or hate each other. If the booze runs out or the canapes are hideous, it's someone else's problem. All I've ever had to worry about is remembering it all the next day.
But not any more. This week I threw my own party - a proper big event for A-listers and just about everyone else who suffers my weekly scrutiny in the Party of the Week column. For the first time, I was exposed to the criticism of those I serially lampoon. I was on the front line, head above the trenches and armed only with a frock and a head of curls. It was terrifying.
Days before, I was plagued by nightmares about standing in our venue, Pink Salt, alone because not a single one of the 200-plus guests we'd invited had turned up. These prophecies became so vivid and frequent that I almost called Pink Salt's owners, Bella and Evan, to apologise for frightening everyone away from their restaurant. As my anxiety grew, I began to plague Tiffany our party organiser with bizarre questions such as how large the hotdogs would be and would the topless male waiters in pyjama bottoms be insured against chafing.
I started suffering all-consuming paranoia; when I discovered Sydney Writers' Festival was having its launch party on the same night as mine, I took it personally and vowed never to read books ever again - even my own one, which was what my party was for.
And then I realised, too late, what had happened; I'd become a partyzilla.
You've seen them, and possibly you've been one. Partyzillas, like bridezillas, are hosts from hell; people who, suddenly thrust into the spotlight for a short but intense period, lose their perspective, humour, taste, patience and every other attractive quality until all that remains is a large, disagreeable two-year-old.
On the day of the party, I was about as much fun to be around as a massacre. I spent two hours changing my mind about what to wear then another hour changing it back, dis-invited someone then re-invited them, and started speaking with a Welsh accent, which doctors say is the first sign of madness. When Daniel my hairdresser called to say he had a migraine, I screeched: "Get a new head!" And remember how Maria Carey apparently once insisted upon a dressing room filled with white puppies and kittens? That's nothing. I wanted mine to have walls made of fruit cake and a Darth Vader Pez holder on a yellow table in the room's northernmost corner. And a camel.
Anyway, it went well and everyone came and had fun and no-one ended up face down in the cupcakes, but it was an extraordinary insight into the distorting effects of party-throwing on a (fairly) well-adjusted psyche. I'm back to normal, but now view the party hosts I report on with new respect.
Does this happen to everyone? Has throwing a party ever driven you mad? I'd feel a lot better if you outdid my war story with some of yours.
- by Amy Cooper at 09:52 PM
- Comments (4)
Welcome to the flying kangaroo's first-class disco
IT'S confusing. There are bars that look like airports, and airports that look like bars, and if you're not careful you can end up in Ulaan Batar when you only meant to have a glass of semillon. In this city, you just have to roll with it.
And so we took our passports, went to the departures hall and checked in at gate D, where a phalanx of beaming, gleaming Qantas staff greeted us.
In the true spirit of "musn't grumble", the airline was putting a brave face on its business turbulence and throwing a lavish party for its new first-class lounge.
"You're going to love it," said the check-in lady. I suspected so. With interior by Marc Newson, the industrial design legend (not a "stylist", as reported elsewhere), a spa, library and 48-seat open-kitchen restaurant, this new hangout for the airline's wealthiest cargo is rumoured to have cost $20 million.
While I waited to board the party, I perched on an Italian Poltrona Frau armchair. "You're the first person to sit on that," said another proud staffer. "Make a wish." I was going to wish that next time I fly Qantas the in-flight entertainment system works properly, but that's mean spirited, so I went for world peace instead.
Escorts ushered us through security to airside and past the duty-free booze. "No," they said, before I even opened my mouth.
And then suddenly we were in an airy, beautiful, marble-floored space with forests for walls and a 180-degree view of Sydney. A Collette Dinnigan fashion show of things you'd never wear on planes was in full flow, and Sydney's finest were lolling among American oak sculptures, wool carpets and leather tiles. Waiters bore champagne. Newson himself was at large with Charlotte Stockdale at his side, and Kieren Perkins and Steve Waugh were nibbling offerings from Qantas chef Neil Ponytail Perry.
We admired the cute touches, such as the lounge's air-conditioning ducts, which are giant-sized versions of the little ones above aircraft seats.
(I'd have gone further with that theme and had enormous lemon-scented moist towelettes for rugs, giant sickbags for curtains and a statue of Ralph Fiennes, which is why Newson is a famous designer and I am not.)
"Those wine bottles," I told Sotheby's boss Justin Miller knowledgeably, "are larger versions of the miniature ones you get with your in-flight meal." But he was looking at things aesthetes appreciate, such as the spa's marble showers and Swiss quartzite walls and the real live undergrowth on the walls, which is in fact 8400 plants assembled vertically by celebrity botanist Patrick Blanc. There is no John Travolta Suite.
It's odd to think that no one will stay in this swish spot all evening long. It's a stop-off, not a destination.
Perhaps it's time for Qantas to forget that silly flying business and concentrate on nightclubs instead.
- by Amy Cooper at 01:45 PM
- Comments (1)
LOWDOWN
VISITING the sick normally involves hospitals, an increased risk of golden staph, grapes and a hatchet-faced nurse telling you no, you can't bring that whisky in. It is not a party.
Unless you're Perez Hilton, that is. The celebrity blogger and pneumonia victim was seriously ailing. There was talk he was wheelchair-bound, and he hadn't emerged from his room all week. But against doctors' advice, he was determined to have his Sydney bash.
I'd never seen an invalid at Zeta Bar. Casualties happen, but the truly sick tend to stay away from DJs, vodka cocktails and people from Fashion Week.
Everything had been set up especially for the patient. A roped-off VIP area had become a ward, complete with huge bed and minibar serving medicinal drinks: OGO oxygenated water, Michelob low-carb beer and a red potion with clouds billowing out. "Don't eat the dry ice," a waitress warned. Yikes.
Our host had a shocking cough and really did look crook. "I've got to have a lung X-ray before I fly home," he told me, as his mobile rang. "That's my mum," he said. "I can't answer because she'll hear I'm at a party. I promised her I'd stay in bed."
Well, technically he was in bed. Except this bed was in a bar with a fashion show going on and it had drag queen Courtney Act bouncing around on the end of it. It's unlikely this would have pleased mum.
I like Perez. He's gentler than his blog, loves Sydney and was happy to let everyone clamber all over his bed. We had a long chat propped up on the pillows. There was just one problem - all the while I just couldn't stop thinking: germs. And it wasn't my imagination; people were developing symptoms.
"I'm coughing," said a friend. "I'm dizzy," said a fashion person, although she was probably just hungry.
Had Perez started an epidemic? I roamed the bar to investigate and found shoe queen Terry Biviano. Sure enough, she was pairing pallor with her stilettos. "I've got a fever," she said. "I was in bed with it all yesterday, and missed the fashion shows."
We looked around. Forget corsets or codpieces; right now you were no one without a condition. This year's Fashion Week trend was malaise.
I affected a limp and headed back to Perez's bed, but he'd retired at last and only the Veronicas remained. They were having a pillow fight and looked unfashionably healthy.
"Sickness is the new black!" I declared, and then had to go home and lie down. Style leaders, hook up your drips, put on your pyjamas and remember - you heard it here first.
- by Amy Cooper at 02:01 PM
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