Milan Misadventures

Giorgio Armani and me, we don’t often cross paths. Tina Turner sends him a panther every Christmas; I watch Peterborough Panthers speedway team occasionally. He’s got an estimated fortune of £4 billion; until recently I spent Friday nights sitting on a Tesco till. As he sat in his mansion, I was hunting down my £13.50-per-night hostel.

After a day spent investigating the Duomo cathedral, I sought some less sophisticated entertainment; there’s only so much refinement you can stand on a Saturday afternoon. Even though Milan is a destination known for fashion, style and elegance, these were far from my mind when entering a pub imaginatively named ‘The Football Bar’ to watch some British sport after a day of continental culture.

With Six Nations rugby on TV, I grabbed the last remaining table. A few lads wandered in, briefcases in tow, fresh from a conference. I offered seats, and was soon explaining the morals behind England fielding a Tonga-born former New Zealand international in a match against Wales, to a Scotsman, an Australian and an Italian. This seemed to go down well, the suits suitably impressed with my passable sporting knowledge.

They were interested enough to keep the drinks coming my way, and convinced me - through the persuasive power of Peroni - to join them for dinner. With only 15 Euros in my wallet, thankfully they were picking up the tab. I felt slightly out of place as champagne and lobster began to be served. Finally, I asked: “So what exactly is it you do?” Turns out I was in the midst of 16 international law firm partners, which came in handy when the bill reached two grand.

I thought it was time to depart, only to find I was on the guest list at “some club or other.” This was Armani Prive, Giorgio’s private nightclub, noted by theworldsfinestclubs.com for its “exclusive, luxurious atmosphere of personal expression.” My personal expression was crazed bewilderment, being the only non-millionaire/supermodel inside, dressed more H&M than D&G.

Realising the best way of fitting in with my newfound friends was a combination of polite nodding and gratuitous leering, I exited at 4am. But, unbeknown to me, the paparazzi were waiting. As they snapped away I considered a Bjork-esque attack on them for daring invade my privacy. Instead, I made my way to the hostel, reminiscing about my night of glamour before reality hit in the form of stale-bread for breakfast.