After the Solange/Jay-Z/Beyonce/Bodyguard family fight in the elevator of The Standard Hotel (after the very glamorous Met Ball) I hear, from a friend who works at the hotel, that a perfectly innocent person was accused of selling the video to TMZ … and fired.
A statement made by all persons in the elevator during the inciting incident explained that it was a private ‘family matter’ and would remain so.
Then, amazingly Whoopi Goldberg… who has become a kind of wise, day-time-TV Maya Angelou lite sage (speaking slowly to underline the import of everything she says) wades balls deep into the soupy narrative. Her conclusion? That if you get hit by anyone you should be able to hit them back.
I wondered why Whoopi wasn’t commending Jay-Z for his dignity and restraint? Because one thing is certain… if Jay-Z had hit Solange in the face and broken her jaw Whoopie would be leading the deafening chorus of disdain for those men who hit women.
So, Whoopi, if Jay-Z had retaliated… how hard should he have hit Solange? I’m wondering what the appropriate retaliation would be for a man hitting an angry woman whilst she is being held by his bodyguard? Knock her out maybe? So she no longer poses a threat?
Whoopi thinks STAND YOUR GROUND is a very good idea. Well, we all know where that leads. Trayvon Martin.
Let’s remind Whoopi what we are supposed to do if we are attacked… Whoopi, we don’t smack them in the face… we call the police… that’s what they’re there for. That’s why we pay our taxes .
Jess and I decided to put on our best togs, book into the coolest hotel we could find (Hotel Amour) and spend the weekend in Paris.
I woke early on Dean Street and to my delight a young man popped over to say a sweet goodbye. He stayed a few minutes. His lithe, hairless, Irish body for my delectation.
I packed…a punch and my suitcase. After a HUGE English breakfast, we were on the train to Dover. When we got there however, this grey miserable Kentish town, we realized that we had missed our last train from Calais to Paris.
Good naturedly we decided to press on and agreed that once on the boat we would ask if anyone, by any chance, was going to Paris and could we cadge a lift?
Well, one might think that would be a hard task to accomplish. Initially it was. I sent Jess (red tight sweater, full lips) to schmooze the lorry drivers but they were mostly Polish so immune to her pigeon French and hand gestures. She cut no ice with these gruff eastern Europeans.
Whilst she was gesticulating wildly and grinning like the Joker at fat men…I met a beautiful 24 year old soldier called Nick with blue eyes and the sweetest nature. Surprise, surprise!
Nick hung out with us for the duration and I couldn’t stop thinking about him…he was/is gorgeous.
Anyway, finally, we found a British coach driver with abnormally bad teeth, pallid complexion and a weasily midland disposition called Leigh. He wanted our cash so we willingly handed over 200 euros for a lift to Paris. What he failed to tell us was that the majority of the other passengers on the coach were so drunk that they could not sit squarely in their seats, farted continually and made conversations that made even me blush. Not because they were lewd but because they were so puerile.
I have not been in such ghastly company for ages. Jess described them as ‘pond life’.
They all suffered, like children, from the disease of more. More food, more alcohol..and of course Penny from Wolverhampton, sitting directly behind me could not think of anything but her suppurating vagina as she tried hopelessly to blow one man and coax another into the bathroom..neither of whom would have anything to do with her.
Penny (Pennoy) then grabbed my head and told me to look at her. I said, “Have you met my wife?” She then leapt out of her seat to kiss Jess, her alcohol sodden body falling onto my poor, sober friend.
Anyway, seething with resentment, my jaw clenched for three hours we finally disgourged in Paris…as it happens a few kilometers from out hotel so, in a few surprisingly short moments, we were eating delicious cheese and drinking Badoit before falling into a deep and deserved sleep.
I slept with Jess because of a room issue. She does not snore, fart or talk in her sleep. I, on the other hand, could not stop thinking about my blond squaddy and what I would do with him if it was he and not her laying beside me.
The room issue is now resolved…so perhaps…nah…well…maybe.
Today we shopped. Collette, Lanvin, Comme…etc. My post tumour life. We ate lunch at Costes. Hanging out with Jess is so much fun. Last time I was here I was with the HIM who I rather cruelly but accurately described as Jean-Baptiste Grenouille the guy from the novel Perfume in my vlog.
Slinking behind me like a crippled, foul-smelling, dwarf.