Ladybros, I come with tidings of great sorrow. You have actually, definitely missed THE FANCY DRESS PARTY OF THE YEAR.
No, it wasn’t a toddler’s tea party, a masked ball, or a bunch of hipsters wearing cat-face in Dalston. It was the wedding of Sam Branson (er, duh. The son of Sir Richard?) and his wife, ‘the former Isabella Anstruther-Gough-Calthorpe’. Because when you’ve got enough money to host a pixie-themed weddingathon on Necker Island, double-barrelled just ain’t gonna cut it.
The event was held in an ‘arboretum’ (NOT a forest) under the theme ‘Enchanted’, and included such heretofore-intelligent gullible sods in tights as Brian Cox (I thought you had a degree in PHYSICS, Brian. I’d have expected this of Fergie and those daughters of hers who wear intestines for hats, but not of you.) They also had tepees.
Meanwhile, Isabella’s father, a similarly deluded human being who owns the house and garden, called it ‘truly enchanted’ and claimed that it had ‘healing powers’ in the most spectacular of ways: ‘A great friend of my father and stepmother lost his eyesight. He spent time in the arboretum and his sight came back.’ Truly fortuitous that the Virgin dynasty would join in holy matrimony with the guardian of a magical enchanted forest. Look out soon for shackled unicorns flying selected Virgin Airways routes, at an airport near you!
Here is an Actual Description From The Article: ‘Outside, actors dressed as nymphs skipped in and out of the bushes as guests followed the path through the arboretum.’ The French beheaded Marie Antoinette for far lesser crimes than these.
‘Dry ice was filtered in before the guests entered the banqueting tepee, giving the place a dramatic, mystical woodland feel’, simpers Hello in continuation, possibly the most hyperbolic way that anybody has ever described smoke in a tent full of food, and despite the fact that everyone knows dry ice at a party says one thing and one thing only: nineties Ibiza club night.
At least one guy you might find snorting something multicoloured out the back of an Ibiza club night was there – James Hewitt Jr himself, Prince Harry, looking ‘mischievous in a fox costume’, which I suppose must have at least gone down better than the last time he tried out fancy dress. After all, the most offensive thing a fox can usually do is keep you awake all night with its hellish shriek of a mating call, which I’m pretty sure he did in Las Vegas already. But all bets are off if he eats someone’s baby.
Meanwhile, Richard Branson came as Robin Hood, which his daughter apparently said ‘suited him rather well’, clearly having never looked into any of his taxation policies.
‘People have more fun at parties when they’re dressed up silly’, laughed Isabella, 33’ (THIRTY THREE?), when asked about the theme. Since her actual wedding was more of a ‘white tie’ than ‘garden gnome’ affair (you know, the one before the one they’re having now. Don’t understand? You’ll never marry a Branson), she added: ‘We’ve been very, very lucky to have not one, but two amazing canvases to paint our party on.’
But not as lucky as the human race has been to benefit from your existence, Izzy (or, to use her catchy boarding school nickname, ‘Anstruther-Gough-Calthorpe, Metaphor Extraordinaire’.) Carry on painting those beautiful canvases of experience.
The night was toasted halfway through with the following poem: ‘Pixies, fairies and men in tights/ Let’s raise our glasses and celebrate tonight.’ No boring old ‘Love is patient, love is kind’ or Sonnet 18 for these folk. Somewhere in Heaven, Shakespeare lets out a strangled sob and the Goddess of Love bursts into all-consuming flames. It was only a matter of time before romance was replaced by shoddy rhyming couplets about hosiery.
At least Isabella’s sisters were there to bring some much-needed grounding to the event: Pandora, Georgiana, Olivia, Gabriella, Cressida, Octavia and Arabella. No, seriously.
Sigh. Is it time for the Marxist revolution yet?