Liveblogging my hangover
Oversharing from the Burberry slumber party at Claridge's.
and then there is being air-lifted (fine, chauffeured) from Streatham to Claridge’s by Burberry like some kind of suburban Cinderella being summoned to the Mayfair ball. One minute I’m waving goodbye to the busted Costcutter at the end of my road, the next I’m gliding past Goyard on Mount Street in a Mercedes town car, mentally preparing to enter a tax bracket that is not mine. Yet.
London at Christmas is already camp ASF, but Burberry sleepover held at Claridge’s is camp with a budget, which is my favorite genre. Burberry creative director Daniel Lee even designed the Claridge’s Christmas Tree—so obviously I had to be there, purely to support the arts. (And also because I was invited and there was free food).
When I rolled up, Burberry immediately threw me into a black cab wrapped in their Christmas check. This was performance art. I was giving influencer-at-large, gazing out the window, forlorn, as if I were Princess Di pre-divorce. We stopped outside the Houses of Parliament for me to take a fit pic, because nothing screams “festive content” like posing for IG in front of a legislative body that has seen too much.
Then I arrived in my suite—suite—with my boyfriend Will, where Burberry and Claridge’s proceeded to absolutely spoil me. A giant bath tub. Matching tops. Matching slippers. (We’ll get to the full swag haul later.) We immediately ordered fish and chips and lobster rigatoni—balance. The lobster was so fresh I’m convinced it had a name and hobbies earlier that day. Obviously we washed that down with a bottle of Chablis.
Side note: Claridge’s has seats in the elevators. Seats. In the lifts. I have seen the height of civilization and it is upholstered.
Dinner that night was with the Burberry team and a lineup of influencers from around the world. The only press people were me and my bestie Daniel Rodgers from British Vogue, which meant we were the designated representatives of “media credibility.” Terrifying. After my baked seabass and lentils, we floated up to the Royal Suite for desserts and “digestifs” (read: espresso martinis). And just when I thought the night couldn’t get any more extra, a full choir of soulful carolers appeared and started belting harmonies so heavenly I almost converted to something.
I waddled back to my room full of sugar and caffeine and found—wait for it—a Burberry stocking overflowing with gifts. At this point I was one “surprise pony” away from fainting.
I woke up at 8 a.m. for the Christmas tree reveal because apparently I am a professional now. I was violently hungover. The tree was magical. I was not. I turned up in leopard boxer shorts, Burberry slippers, and a cashmere Breton pullover—while everyone else was in suits. I looked like a divorced French art teacher who’d just been woken up by the fire alarm.
A band was playing on the stairs. People were sipping champagne (I could not). Daniel Rodgers and I then had the poshest fry-up imaginable. Nothing grounds you like a £50 scrambled egg. Not huge on their hash brown which, texturally, was basically a hockey puck. Lunch was lobster rolls in bed while I contemplated my life choices and admired the fact that the room service staff were now on a first-name basis with me.
That afternoon we decorated gingerbread houses with the Burberry team. Mine looked like it had survived a small but meaningful explosion. Nobody said it was bad, but everyone said it was “fun,” which is worse.
Then came the Burberry pop-up, where we were each gifted a scarf. I was worried I’d get a color that made me look like a rugby dad but ended up with a red check—my favorite, and also the one that makes me look the most expensive. Before the evening festivities, Will and I went for a swim in the basement pool and used the sauna and steam room because wellness is important, especially before another night of binge drinking. Dinner? Room service again. He had lobster pasta; I had chicken Milanese with pomme purée because nothing says luxury like eating fried chicken and mashed potatoes in a robe.
I got dressed: grey Burberry check shirt, red Stefan Cooke knit, vintage Levi’s, sparkly Jimmy Choo slippers, new Burberry scarf. I looked like a festive intellectual with a trust fund. The party was packed. At one point I physically could not enter the main space because the crowd density reached Beyoncé-concert levels.
Everyone was in soaring spirits. I may have missed a reading by Olivia Colman, but I made up for it by hooting and hollering at Alexa Chung, PinkPantheress (“yes, the purse!”), Sebastian Croft, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, and Alva Claire (forever fan). At one point I got shoved by REDACTED (dead to me). Later, I asked Karen Elson to wink for i-D, and she told me she couldn’t because she’d had too much Botox. An icon.
I floated between friends from fashion and beyond—plus a couple of hangers-on. One we met on the street asking for a cigarette; another got so wasted they introduced me to the hotel’s artistic director twice. Then came cocktails at The Fumoir (“don’t worry, I’ll put it to my room…” a mistake my credit card is currently grieving). I ended the night in the only way that makes sense after partying at Claridge’s—by ordering lasagna to my room and passing out like a Victorian child in a Dickens novel (honk shoo).
The next morning, Burberry collected me in another chic town car and drove me back to Streatham, where my cat Leo greeted me with the silent judgment of someone who knows I’ve been fraternizing with the W1 postcode. Bittersweet, but also—my own bed. Heaven. And perhaps, for once, a brief pause on alcohol.
Striped rugby long-sleeve top
Check button-up shirt
Check house slippers
Large knitted check tote (don’t ask me how much this costs)
Teddy bear knight bag charm
Oversized red check scarf
Burberry Hero perfume
Deck of cards x2
Christmas tree bauble with teddy bear
Ginger-caramel scented candle
Tin of loose tea leaves
Drivel
fucking iconic