JESUS CHRIST. My new favourite word. It was my New Years resolution to blaspheme more. Partly because I'm an atheist and partly because blasphemous phrases have such a solid punch to them. You can't argue with them. That's why they are the Kings and Queens of exclamations. I evenheard a bloke with a priest's collar on swear when he got grabbed in the tube door. Whats going on?

I'm sitting in Victoria station waiting to go and see Lincoln, the new Spielberg film in a little village called Oxted of all places because I like the cinema there and I get free tickets. That's the main reason I go.

Since the last set of words I put together for this column, where I spoke of erectile dysfunction of all things I have come to two realisations. I hate snow in London and I'm sick the man who announces stuff at stations. It doesn't help anything. People don't listen, it is played to such average acoustics in the vast buildings stations are that no one could even hear it if they tried
anyway. There it is, rant over for this week.

Since last time jet-setting has been severely hindered, much like Transport For London, by the snow. But despite the hindrance, I soldiered on with my tennis rackets strapped to my feet in search of some culture in the cold to share with you all.

Due to the freeze thaw weathering that my fingers and toes had undergone from London's Ice Age, where absolutely everything froze and then turned into a slush puppy, I decided to book myself in for a manicure and pedicure; my first. I thought I should reward my hands and feet for functioning so magnificently despite the cold period.

So there I was, lying on this bed, listening to an out of date 'chilled' album on tiny speakers and yes, I was severely judging myself. As soon as the lady came to bathe my feet in what I can only describe as a foot vibrator, I found myself making excuses as to why I was there:

"My girlfriend was supposed to be here with me but she got held up at
work unfortunately. I wouldn't normally come to this sort of thing, it was supposed to be a sort of pre-Valentines occasion." To which there was an awkward silence, giggles amongst the entirely female caste of beauticians and the reply: "No need to make excuses Mr. Clarke, we get men coming for pedicures all the time." They had seen right through me. I felt like an impotent snail. Helpless and unable to make progress. I attempted to snigger along but no sound came out so I looked down at my iPhone and Googled 'What is the date of Valentines Day this year?'. I was utterly befuddled.

After my brief trip into the world of the modern man, I was back outside on the slushy ground but there was a difference. My hands were feeling like the buttocks of Cupid and my feet no longer felt as though they were touching the ground. I was in Back to the Future and on a hover board. It was quite remarkable. Men and Sci-Fi fans of the world, I address you. Be kind to your feet and hands and they may well do things you never thought they could. I felt like a Samsonite suitcase sitting next to a Louis Vuitton nap sack on an airport conveyor belt - Ready for a much more comfortable journey than anyone else.

Walking back to work with neatly preened hands and feet, my mind was thinking clearly. All of a sudden I thought, "Why call work 'work'." That makes it sound strenuous when it really needn't. Why not call it 'money-pleasure generation'? It makes perfect sense. If you do indeed derive pleasure from your work like I do then count this noun in, if not just call it money generation. Sounds way better.

Money generation complete, it was time to go to The Queens Club for the weekly instalment of a bizarre hobby of mine. Rackets; a sport for which I happened to be world ranked, 53 to be exact - more on this in the next instalment. Whilst waiting for the bus from Hampstead due to northern line delays, caused by snow on the underground - I know, didn't make much sense to me either - I was struck by ball of snow. In the face.

Having already felt like an impotent snail earlier in the day, I felt more like that of a slug now, that had just been seasoned with salt. Feeling like a sub par and rapidly eroding Phylum I chased after the ten year old lad, missing the bus, grabbed him by the coat and said: "You'll get knifed around here if you keep doing that! Find some friends or throw them at a wall!" 

He went white as the snowball itself, whimpered and sprinted off. As a Hampstead kid he most likely had a double-barrelled name and the likelihood of him getting knifed in this area was probably on the same level as in Cheltenham Spa. Nonetheless I saved the day and prevented further snowball oppression for already stressed TFL users.

Keep on jet-setting, snowball oppressed or not.

F

Here we are, the big 2013. Is there any way it can possibly live up to the Britfest that was 2012? I believe so, for one reason and one reason only. I got both socks and underpants for Christmas.

Yes, that’s right people, Calvin Kleins and Paul Smiths. It does not get any better than that; the ultimate present, an über gift for men and women alike; functional, in demand and stylish. It temporarily cured any pure hatred of the family after spending a week all together. It was a pyrrhic victory alleviating the pain of
Grandma floating around the house looking for jobs to do when thy had all been done, the mother stressing over another year of food preparation and the brothers generally winging about Brussels sprouts and parsnips being a part of this year’s roast. Indeed, the last thing I will say about the Christmas frolics, as I know most of us are completely sick of them is that my fear of Brussels sprouts has finally vanished. My taste buds have finally evolved. I must be becoming a man.

2013 kicked off much like a Brussels sprout. Starting off in muddy ground, walking through a Cotswoldian field on the way back from a country inn then finally sprouting on the floor of someone’s country house with a beam of sunlight dazzling my puffy, arid eyes. Something much like what a  sprout would see if were to evolve such features one day. This was followed by a sloppy lick from a dog and there it was, Happy New Year!

I’ve often thought the main issue with new year is the fact that people make an event of it. The fact is, it’s just a new year. The clocks go round again, the calendars flip and we celebrate the age Jesus would be if he was knocking about nowadays. In some religions they don’t even celebrate the new year until much later in our year. For example the Islamic calendar says it’s 1434 and the Hindu calendar says it’s something like 2072. The point is no one knows what bloody year it is. Being a bit of an atheist and all, I reckon they should calculate the year that the earth has actually been around for, a figure that astrologists and geologists must know.

For these reasons, New Year celebrations cause a number of issues. We feel an intense high, drink a serious amount and then, BAM, you’ve got a severe hang over and a whole ‘new year’, according to whichever calendar you adhere to, hitting you head on like a flat nosed freight train. It’s like we have to go to senior school every year. You celebrate reaching the end of prep school and then you have to get bullied again by the sixth formers for the first few months until you settle in and they get told off for taking advantage of their new found power as seniors. It just doesn’t work for me. For this reason, as I was being licked by a dog on the floor of the country house with my stomach feeling like it was hooked to a piece of rope that was about to rip it out, I thought, here we go, just another day on Planet Earth, let’s smash it.

So if you ever find yourself with the New Year Blues, thinking, “here we are again, another year closer to erectile dysfunction”,  then think again. Let me tell you, there is going to be some serious Jet Setting this year, nothing has changed and yes, you heard it first right here.

Hello all – how are we? Feeling Christmassy yet? I am not. As I sit here typing this article, I am staring out of my office window, looking at thick raindrops trickling down my window. I'm also listening to ‘Santa Baby’ in an attempt to get into the Christmas frame of mind. Let it snow.

Following last week’s extravagant series of events, including Katie Price being chucked out of Raffles, we venture this week up north for a funeral. My first. Back to the vale of Lytham St.Annes, Blackpool, I ventured to attend my Granddad’s funeral. This sad occasion, though nothing to do with jet-setting, presented a whole series of socially awkward moments. Sitting on the train, I was contemplating what to do at a funeral. I’m a cheery chap by nature and the thought of mourning or how to act at a funeral service had never really occurred to me before. Am I allowed to smile, to laugh or crack jokes to lighten the mood? This is surely what my Granddad, a cheery fellow himself, would have wanted. I soon found out that funerals are a very strange thing and the feeling of going to one cannot be described unless you have actually been to one. It’s the same as when you never know how you’re going to react when you find out someone you knew has died. For the non-funeral goers amongst you I would advise the following after my debut experience. Firstly, know when to smile and crack jokes and secondly, know when to be solemn. In other words, just use your loaf and do what comes naturally.

After a morbid weekend at the funeral, speaking mostly to people sixty or seventy years my senior, I arrived back in London with some serious jet-setting to do, involving the world of art. The art world is a strange one; full of people with far too much money to spray around and time to spend coming up with a pompous or grandiosely understated explanations as to what their art means. In this world, it is OK to take drugs if it takes you to some higher level of creativity, in which to indulge in or produce your art. It therefore comes with a plethora of champagne and other substance infused parties, which mean that more art gets sold and more wild creations get made.

 I always think people who collect art, particularly modern art (where the meaning is unclear by the likes of Mark Rothco and Andy Warhol), do so for the very same reasons that a person joins an exclusive club in London. They do it because it makes them feel like a bald eagle does to a field mouse or a body builder does to a geek. On a higher level; it is a status symbol in short. It therefore comes with its social perks, one of which I shall explain.

I have recently been immersed in this world after I began living with a family friend of ours who is a successful art curator and director of a large modern art gallery that has just come to London from
New York. Round at the house, we regularly have visits from Damien Hurst , Tracy Emin and the like. Much to my amusement. I actually made Damien a cup of tea and gave him one of my girlfriend’s home-made cupcakes just the other day. This lady also sources art for Roman Abramovic’s wife, Dasha Zukova, who is a big modern art collector. So, I got invited to the opening of a new illustrators exhibition, a girl called Emily Carew Woodard, a friend of mine who has just been picked up by a big player in the art world. 

Her illustrations are extremely intricate and mostly of cute looking, deliberately out of proportion animals riding bicycles or fishing. The art seemed like something that would be in a new edition of Grimm’s Tales or in Liberty’s, on the front of one of their Christmas cards. (If you ever get the chance to pop in to the Liberty stationary section, by the way, you will not be disappointed.)

Whilst at this event, I bumped into an old friend whom I hadn’t seen for a long while, who as it turned out was hosting the art gallery opening. After the usual catchup chit-chat, I said to him: “James, there’s so much bloody alcohol here! Most of it 2002 Champagne and there’s only about 30 odd people here. There’s about 3 bottles per person, how come?!” James’ answer was as simple as it was to the point. 

He replied: “Felix, people buy things when they’re drunk.” My friend, Emily, who was selling her illustrations for £30 quid each at a market in Shoreditch, just a year ago, took home £35,000 that night. The Champagne theory is clearly a winner. Take note.

Interestingly, being famous in the art world is one of the few places where people can know your work but not your face. Being at an art gallery, you can be having a chat with the artist who actually did the works or people with super famous names, in the small world that it is, and be completely clueless. This is something that I thought would be deeply different from a launch party that I went to later in the week for
a new line of jewelry by Chamilia, a similar brand to Links London, but US-based. This was a PR event at its best. Freebies with value, mojitos on tap and slebs everywhere. Ones that I thought I would recognise, being supposedly media savvy and clued up on sleb culture. If you watched that terrible TV show I was on, you’ll know that this is not the case – see Jodie Marsh interview. On the night, rumour had it that Kelly Brook was going to be there amongst other bright young things. Once the mojitos were flowing, I began talking to plenty of randomers and eventually found myself bumbling up to a lady with ginger hair and a green handbag. In an attempt to be flirtatious, I opened with: “I love your auburn hair, it’s very rare to find someone with natural hair like that. It complements your emerald handbag very well indeed!” To which she replied: “Why thank you, it’s dyed though, sadly. I wish! You're not looking too bad yourself.” 

Not a bad start, I thought. I then notice people crowding round this person and a photographer from Getty images bustling in to catch a snap of her. Turns out it was Katy B. Lovely lady all the same. Art world and sleazy sleb induced PR events are not socially dissimilar for me, it would seem. I always seem to end up talking to famous people and not knowing it.

From funerals to funky illustrations, last week was a good'un, to say the least. In jet-set terms, I would say it was like a G6 colliding with a Spitfire, and then both parties being able to eject and land safely, just. See you after Christmas for plenty of festive escapades, if your not Christmassed out by then that is. Now get those Christmas lists sorted.

If you’re wondering, all I ever want for Christmas is socks and undies. 

Keep on jet-setting.

So where did we leave off? If my thoughts are correct we are still on the King’s Road (KR for short – get with the lingo) and I was supposed to tell you something about what happened at the magical, pumpkin soup and phenomenal finger food infused Winter Bar launch at the Bluebird Café. However, something even better happened the night before… 

As you may know, I have just started hosting a night at the well-known and notorious Raffles Club on KR. A club known as a hang out for the Royals and a place where your parents would have probably been in the swinging Sixties. If you’re my friend you have most likely been invited to one of my three nights I have had there –with multiple free bottles of vodka named after a particular coloured bird and a the Italian word for a ‘a beautiful sight’. Anyway, sipping away at my vodka lime and soda (don't laugh) – my Kiwi actress friend asked me outside for a smoke, giving the usual two fingers to the lips to signal this. Now listen here people, I don’t smoke but never say no to someone asking you outside for a cigarette, unless they look like Jimmy Saville because of the rafts of interesting conversations and networking that can be done in the smoking area when people are relaxed, alcohol induced and breathing the fresh air. Trust me, many great things have happened and can happen in such a situation.

Now we are out of the door only to find a woman in some sort of mink hoodie with an entourage of
seedy-looking Essex types behind her. She tries to clamber under the red rope. Who is this Essex gal I wonder? Then I overhear someone say, “HAHA I can’t believe they won’t let Katie Price in!” To my
astonishment, I did not feel the urge to get a picture of myself and this ‘sleb’ – the new improved way of saying ‘celeb’. I felt embarrassed for her. In fact, most people did because no one seemed bothered about her; no one was even taking to their iPhones to snap a picture of this tiny drunk little woman! So I walked inside and left her to it. Kicked out of a Polo Club in Hampshire and now Raffles. I could see the headline the next day: Katie Price is a celebrity, get her out of here! 

Hang on a minute - headline, sell, story, pictures, arghhh.

Suddenly my alcohol induced journalistic brain felt the urge to get a picture of her getting kicked out. What a story this would make for the Daily Malicious! Sure enough I raced back outside and she and her entourage had vanished. There was not an oversized boob or see-through top in sight. Darn.

The next morning and afternoon came and went all too quickly, with me trying to attempt to sell the story to multiple publications, unsuccessfully, because, it had no pictures. Sigh. Still, The Winter Bar launch beckoned like Christmas day, when you go to bed the night before with expectations of a full stocking in the morning.

I arrive on my own, due to plus one being late, to the smell of chestnuts actually roasting on an open fire. For a minute I thought I was still asleep and dreaming and was about to wake up with a severe hangover from the night before. But no, this was real. Möet & Chandon was on tap all night as well as waves of phenomenal finger food such as pumpkin soup in little glass mugs, mini burgers with red cabbage and chutney, prawn cocktails on a spoon, scallops, mince pies, strawberries and cream and to top it all off, mulled wine. To say they had pushed the boat out (Bluebird was in fact a speedboat that crashed in a bid to set the water speed record in 1967) would be an understatement on par with saying Gangnam Style has had ‘a few’ hits on YouTube. 

FYI The Winter Bar is open from now until 2nd January 2013 so get there while you can. The other thing I noticed under the warmth of the patio heaters and amongst the Chestnuts roasting on the open fire was the sheer amount of fur around me. Ferrets, rabbits, foxes, leopards, were everywhere, dead of course,
around peoples necks and on people’s heads. I was horrified, even though commenting on these dead animals is a good way to start a conversation with an extremely attractive and wealthy female. Dead animals aside this was a solid night to add to my #lifeofajetsetter week.

You may remember if you read last week’s column that I was talking about Hummus and how one should pronounce it. Well, this week there is more to come in the way of food. Following from the scallops and swimming pools worth of pumpkin soup at the Bluebird, this week I have eaten well, very well indeed. I am a bit of a food nut, hence why I have a consistent thin layer of flab over my five pack.

Three things food-wise have happened:

1.) I ate a lot of Smash. Instant mash created by some German Scientist in the 70s, the kind of thing you see them selling at Urban Outfitters next to an old school camera that uses film. This stuff is genius. It costs a pound for a bag, which serves six helpings. You pour boiling water on it and in the same way that the ‘grow your own snow’ stuff they sell at Harrods puffs up, Smash is created. Add some butter , season to taste and you’re laughing. Best hangover food, best after night out food and it takes 3 minutes to do what would normally take at least 10.

2.) I went to Wagamamas. The noodle place where they serve you bowls of noodles in water with vegetables and tofu –something that intrigues me greatly. It shouldn’t taste good. But it does. I went to the one in Hampstead after going to see the new Great Expectations film, which I would highly recommend to all English Lit students and general Dickens lovers. My girlfriend and I were however by far the youngest
in the cinema, squashed between some old Etonian and a lady who I believe was the Queen. Anyway, when my GF’s head emerged from this bowl of noodles she had been buried in for the last half an our, she said, “Do you know what Felix, I think there should be a thing called Poshism,like racism against posh people.” Immediately I sucked up the last Udon noodle from my plate. “Go on…” I said. “Yes, well this girl at work is so rude to me the whole time because she thinks I’m posh and whenever someone ‘posh’ comes in to work, she is so abrupt with them. If anything, posh people have much better manners than some other people who are actually more rude most of the time, but we aren’t allowed to be ‘Commonist’ or we’ll get
sued.” She had a point. At this point I cast my mind back to that disgusting production on ITV2, The Exclusives. Of course, I was allowed to be called ‘posh boy Felix’ but Hayley – the girl from the Midlands was not allowed to be called ‘Commoner Hayley’, was she. Of course not, because she is from  the majority, not the 5% who are fortunate enough to be  well educated and well spoken. I said to my girlfriend, “The thing is, even though you do have the largest moat in the South of England my dear, you mustn’t rise to it.
Let them look like the impolite one and as they say in Happy Feet, “just smile and wave!””

3.) Finally, ICCO Pizza on Charlotte Strett is in my opinion the best pizza place in the land of London. Simple, cheap and damn tasty. £3.95 for a margarita and they make a supreme coffee too because ICCO stands for Italiano Coffee Co. Get there when you can. I can taste their pizza now. Mmm – lovely!

Well, that just about rounds off my week. From Katie Price being smashed to Smash itself. 

Jetting setting has never been so varied.
Until next week, keep doing just that.

So here it is. The first instalment of my column for The Jet Set Gazette, a marvellous little publication that will hopefully not be so little in months to come.

In this column my master plan is to paint you a picture in words about what has happened to me in London in the past week. It could be about anything from attending a VIP party or DJing in a club to getting hummus rage or having a glass of milk before I go to bed. But above all I aim for this to be a darn good, down to earth look at London from my perspective.

In order to make these articles as exciting as possible I shall endeavour to reach as far into my memory of things I have done and attempt to explain them as vividly as Wilfred Owen did WW1, albeit without the pathos. As it happens this week has been rather action packed. Started in a Hollywood-style fashion with an interview with Tim Bevan, the CEO and founder of Working Title Films, the people who brought us some quintessentially – I hate that word – British films like Four Weddings and a Funeral, Bridget Jones’ Diary, Love Actually, Billy Elliot and of course Shaun of the Dead. Walking into the central London offices of Working Title Films felt something like what you might expect when walking into MI6 HQ; British and proud of it. I was interviewing him for my old school magazine, as he was an ex-pupil. Considering how influential this man has been to British and global cinema over the years I was struck by his humility and modesty. An extremely cool dude.
On the way back from the interview with Tim, I was walking down Marylebone High Street when I saw a Waitrose sign gleaming like a mirage in the urban desert. So I pop in to buy some general groceries, Smash included – we’ll get to that some other time – when I saw a two for one offer on hummus. 

Waitrose by the way, unbeknown to many is in fact cheaper and a much better shopping experience than any other supermarket. So looking at this two for one offer on hummus I feel an anger and rage building up inside me because I swear when I was in Sainsbury’s the other day it was spelt ‘houmous’. This brings me to another intrigue of mine. How does one pronounce the word ‘hummus’? In every supermarket I look in it is spelt differently. We need a Cypriot or Greek to put this debate to bed once and for all. Is it pronounced hum-us? Hoo-moos? Hew-muus? Or maybe a combination of the three? I am having to have multiple glasses of milk every night to help me sleep because this debate simply haunts me.

There you have it; a small glimpse into a week with Felix, a supposed jet setter but definite go-getter. I hope you have enjoyed coming on this profound adventure with me into a world of film producers and hummus. In next week’s instalment you will be finding all about the Bluebird Café and the launch of their latest cocktail cavern, the Winter Bar, darling. Until then, keep  on  jet setting!