living out london: A little bit of excess

Have you ever wondered about the lives of the uber wealthy? Heard someone say, "Money can't buy you happiness..."? Well, I think it can. I think it does. And I want in on the game.

Last night I attended Elton John's Grey Goose cocktail evening - held at the majestic Piazza in Covent Garden - to raise money for his AIDS Foundation. While Elton was on tour, his longtime partner, David Furnish, presided over the evening, where five custom-designed (by the likes of model Liz Hurley, artist Sam Taylor-Wood, Burberry Creative Director, Christopher Bailey, artist Dinos Chapman and Furnish himself) cocktail mini bars were auctioned off to London's elite. It is interesting to note that as I write, I am babysitting in the home of one of the bidders (just found out that little coincidence tonight). Mr and Mrs X bid a whopping £40,000 for the chance at owning Dinos Chapman's Ice-Cream Van and the rights to the designer cocktail that went with it (a yummy blend of Grey Goose vodka with lemon curd, orange liqueur, sugar syrup and whipped cream)... They were in fact outbid, at £45,000.

I'm all for a good cause - but I have to say that I was more into the cocktails and the drop-dead gorgeous waitstaff than any of the bars themselves. Trust Elton to have organised a modelling casting call when hiring his servers. The boys were dreamy - bare chested studs wearing tuxedo shirts undone just enough to make your knees go wobbly - and the girls, stunning - having had their hair and make-up professionally styled and all wearing skinny jeans, stilettos and Penguin-suit shirts with waistcoats.

Then there were the delicious canapes. Tiny portions of melt-in-your-mouth delights like caviar and goats cheese on a spoon, salmon and roe buttons and Thai-style beef in mini tortilla wraps. There was even a buff-waiter dressed in khaki commandos carrying a hot plate of potato wedges with sour cream and ketchup.

Before you get too jealous, I must insist that I was there in a official capacity (yeah, right!). It was my job to point our photographers in the direction of the celebs who had graced the evening with their presence and point out any stylish fashionistas - and then harass said-socialites about Who they were wearing and ask their favourite obscene cocktail. During the course of duty I chatted with Kelly Osbourne (yes, she really does wear too much make-up and that pastiness isn't just bad lighting), got my neck nuzzled by Jefferson Hack (ex-flame of Kate Moss and father to Lily Grace), and even got propositioned by a seriously wealthy (seriously old) London Sir - who shall remain nameless - who invited me for lunch at Luciano's next week. Have yet to officially decline the invite... such an outing would be great fodder for a blog!

If mixing with the rich and famous at the Piazza, and being served by men who can only be described as sex-on-legs, wasn't enough, when the party came to a close I joined a few of my fellow reporters in a cab to arguably London's hippest hangout, Bungalow 8. Being a Wednesday night, and with one of our party on the members list, we were ushered to our table by our personal waitress for the evening, BB. She was lovely, and happily served us our £45-a-pop Valentinos (champagne cocktails topped with an Elderberry flower, and a gift from my new found friends). There we chatted until the wee-hours - 2am or thereabouts - until we called for our private (company-paid-for) cars to pick us up and take our Cinderella-slippered-selves home.

Now you can't tell me money doesn't buy happiness. Last night I was elation personified!