You couldn't make it up: Madonna, Guy and pals overheard at posh noshery. By William Skedlsk
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.