Its the second week of Liladays. And… Lila’s here. Asleep for now, as per instruction 1472.87A/9726:e71. And I’m glad, because otherwise she might have read in the paper about the terrible scandal of the Presidents Club annual charidee dinner at the Dorchester, no less. Which raised a quite amazing (until you read who was there) 2 million quid, which was given to various charities. Who’ve now all given it back. Cos its ‘tainted money’. Raised from drunk billionaires whilst they were groping and molesting women. It was, by all accounts, a tribute evening to Harvey Weinstein. As it has been every year. Molest 1 or more of the 130 ‘entertainment’ girls employed for the night, and to make you feel like your not a totally amoral abusive man-handling fucking neanderthal, bid on a ridiculously expensive item in the auction to correct the moral downslide. Which was concurrently downsliding all the way down a blonde’s cleavage. The other hand raised for the bid. “I’ll bid 50 GRANDDDD”, he would slur, having drunk his fill of very expensive champers and 40 year old single malts, “for a 20 minute ride on a Boris bike acherley signed by Boris hissself, hic!” Then this suave and debonair gentleman would undo his £5,000 Armani dinner suit and slap his dick on the table. Haaaaa!!!… (drunken laughter all round at the ultimate nob-joke). And that’s why the President’s Club doesn’t admit women. Unless they have a nob they can slap on the table. Though it can’t be someone else’s.

How this has endured for 35 years is almost beyond imagination. But only almost. Because whatever the facade of chauffeur-driven high browiness and nouveau-riche purchased attempts at ‘class’, even Lords and true gents, they’re just men/boys. And you can take the boys out of the sleaze but, apparently, you can never take the sleaze out of these boys. Who will all doubtless feel a sense of entitlement just due to their wealth if nothing else.

The ‘entertainer’ girls sign a massive disclaimer that also silences them ‘for ever’. What happens in the Dorchester stays in the Dorchester. Until this week. When one of those girls, this one an undercover (nothing sleazy in that, its what you call spying in the journo world) reporter for the Financial Times. And she was groped by billionaires, fondled by financiers, molested by moguls and generally was totally appalled and amazed at what happened there on such an industrial scale.

All the girls should have worn pre-emptive ‘me too’ dresses. Or perhaps ‘me to, ya muthafucka’.

What’s perhaps most incredible is the timing of this event. Right at the very tipping point over the entire globe, well, the western bit of it, when the zeitgeist is massively against ‘boys just being boys’ when its at the expense of the girls, and yet it went ahead anyway, with no change to its mission statement.

Lucky I hid it before Lila saw it, or chewed it.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx