While dining at the exclusive London restaurant Locanda Locatelli last week, your humble correspondent found the flow of his thoughts interrupted by the arrival of a party of Very Eminent Persons at the table next to his. This, to the best of his recollection, is their conversation:
Guy Ritchie: "Blimey, ain't half plush, this place, innit?"
Madonna: "Really, Guy. You can't talk. You went to the Ivy last week."
Guy Ritchie: "Shut the £!** up, you vainglorious, over-the-hill trollop. You disgust me. Your hair's receding, your skin's gone all lumpy, and why don't you do us all a favour and take those ridiculous dark glasses off. They make you look like an alien . . . [Turning to Brad Pitt] . . . Frightfully sorry about all this. Women can be so emotional. You know how it is."
Brad Pitt: "Sure thing."
Madonna: "[Sobbing uncontrollably] . . . I should never have come to London."
Guy Ritchie: "So, Brad, great to see you. What brings you to town?"
Brad Pitt: "Er, well, Angelina and me are heading to this thing in Davidoff, Sweden, you know, the World Prosperity Forum, and we thought we'd swing by to see you guys."
Guy Ritchie: "Great stuff. You know Patsy, don't you, Brad?"
An embarrassed silence ensues.
Patsy Kensit: "I think it's fair to say we've met."
Guy Ritchie: "And this is Jamie Oliver, the celebrity chef . . .
[Quietly, leaning over to Brad Pitt] . . . Between you and me, he's
a bit of a ponce. Just don't get him started on oregano."
Jamie Oliver: "Leave it out, Guy. Pitta Boy and me go back a long way. I cooked up a storm for him and his missus on their fortieth birthdays. Now what did I make? Oh yes. A lovely-jubbly little salad of seaweed, artichoke hearts and pomegranate seeds, and then for mains I did a nifty number on a duck. Cracking bird, she was. Laid her out on the slab and gave her a right good stuffing. Know what I'm saying? Superb, she was. All juicy and pink on the inside."
Brad Pitt: "So, Jamie, you're into origami. That's real interesting, because Angelina is, too."
Guy Ritchie: "I warned you, don't get him started."
Patsy Kensit: "[Emitting a loud scream] . . . Oh my God. They serve calves' head here. I refuse to eat at a restaurant that engages in cruelty to young animals. I'm leaving."
At this point your correspondent's attention was diverted by the arrival of a surprisingly large bill. "We added 50 per cent for the conversation value," the waiter explained, looking a little sheepish. Alas, the rest of the conversation went unrecorded.