She Loves You, Not Me…
by Tom Stubbs5 March 2010
Brief: Go to glamorous party and enjoy in modest manner.
Note to self: keep out of trouble.
After a civilised dinner down at the Rivington, the Finch pre-Bafta do was a perfect excuse for a Sexton suit outing. After last years ‘loss accumulator’ (loss of: memory, phone, three hours and the subsequent badminton final the following day) I was very much under manners. I’d barely drank as was with teetotal company for most of the night. Almost barely.
Once ensconced in Annabel’s I embarked on a dance floor scenario with two Finchettes and a Fetherstonhaugh, intent on some light dance-based amusement. After Lily Allen had finished her set and cleared off, an attractive but savvy-deficient bird (Ed’s note: the writer’s view does not reflect FQR’s) was left DJing. She was playing properly awful stuff. She Loves You by The Beatles particularly jarred. I headed straight for the booth, mounted her rostrum and opened with the classic and charming: “Why don’t you play something good?” She was not amused. I suggested playing actual dance music, maybe Grace Jones or perhaps a bit of MJ? “I don’t do requests,” she told me. This wasn’t a request, I explained, this was advice.
At this moment her entourage mobbed me from all directions. Are you familiar with that point when everyone around you is suddenly united piously under a common cause of dealing with the problem that is you? God, I hate that one. No matter how calm you are it simply gets worse. “Just go” was the gist I was getting from a tall Bruce Weber model guy in glasses and three Gretchen-plaited female enforcers. Another advised me to stay clear of the nose up. How dare they mistake a strong shoulder line for such dubious activity? I knew the public wasn’t really ready for Sexton again. I was furious but held it down and sloped off as surreptitiously as my generous kick flares and new snaffle loafers would allow.
Tristram then enquired about the issue with Alexa Chung and myself. The penny dropped. I’d just coated off The Chung. I had no idea and felt awful at the prospect of causing aggravation for the Finch contingent, so immediately strove back to make amends. I approached the Bruce Webber boy’s friend (and doppelganger) and requested an amnesty with Chung. After some negotiation Alexa (didn’t help matters that I kept calling her Alexia) came over. “I’m Alexa,” she explained. I indicated that my earlier approach had been a bit of light-hearted banter. She was just coming round to this when I used the phrase ‘PR Gestapo’. Note to self: Nazi references apparently go down badly. Not even the Webber twins could salvage our relationship now. Like me, I bet, she is devastated.
Shopped quietly in Waitrose on Sunday night. I clocked Alexa on the cover of Vogue. Oh, bugger. Must pay closer attention to this media lark in future. ‘Fashions favourite’ was the cover line, no mention of her services to music mind you. Alas I’ll never listen to She Loves You again without an anxious pang skewering my heart. Or is it my liver?
