But Bruce and I are idiots. We keep forgetting where we are - France. Yes they butt in line but they also serve a full dinner around midnight. We'd fought so hard for the first course at 11 that we'd mentally moved on by the time the real deal arrived. The meat looked fantastic and in true European style the party really began to kick in late night.
Valentino and Giammetti are great hosts, they know how to throw a party. The models arrive with their boyfriends. We chat with David Furnish, Mr Elton John, who's diamond ring puts Bruce's to shame. We meet heiresses and Princesses and writers and ambisexual Euros who leave the door ajar. All are presented titles stenched in hyperbole, "the richest heiress in Transylvania" or "the most influential fashion writer of all time." As my friend meets "the hottest actor in French cinema," they arrange either a potential apartment swap or a ruse for a tryst.
I am introduced to a beautiful blond with spectacular (real) boobs and a top that's barely covering them. She's "the biggest TV star in Italy - 11 million people watch her a week". No more description given, or needed, as we begin to engage but we both hear a ticking clock. It's the beginning of "Hung Up". Our eyes meet - we don't speak but we instinctively know we must book it to the dance floor immediatamente. I take her hand and guide her to what is quickly becoming a mob scene as the entire party converges for a mutual disco freak-out.
Dancing with Italy's biggest TV star made me see why she's an Italian Superstar. She owned the dancefloor. By the middle of the song (when the vocals dip for the heavy bass portion) someone had taken off my tie and I'd lassoed her as her top barely maintained it's status as a "top". I contemplated marrying her and moving to Italy to work for and write a blog for RAI.