High maintenance horrors who never fail to shock
It’s not uncommon to hear them in the bars and restaurants of Belgravia, Chelsea, Kensington, Knightsbridge and Mayfair. They bark orders such as: “I’m having a blow dry in three hours so I want a superfood salad but I want a little cheese burger with no bun as well. Got it? I’m in a bit of a fucking hurry. Got it? Fucking got it?” Manners maketh man and man, the “Chelsea Chicks who Chatter” just don’t have any.
Dressed in a “lovely fucking jumper darling” and capable only of peppering their conversations with “fucking hassled lovely” and “moving house is fucking lovely”, these power lunchers are not like the ladies seen gracing such places as Daphne’s and San Lorenzo in the old days. They want it “now, fucking now” and are speed talkers. They don’t stop. They do Miami, St Tropez and Canada and try to outdo one another on where they’ve “fucking Christmased” and “fucking PJ-d” (“private jetted” for those not in the know). “NetJets right? I’ve got all of that going on. Fucking yeah”.
“Too much salt, too much fucking salt, do a fucking salt test” shouts one at a bemused waiter whilst the other whines about “fucking Mustique” and her “lazy fucking ass” of a boyfriend. “I want gluten free and he gives me fucking red wine”, she screams. “There’s no noise in the house. All he has is fucking staff and all I have is a childish fucker who doesn’t understand school nights”, the other meanwhile raves.
As the “CCC’s” march urgently out of the restaurant to their next power appointments, one comments: “I’m laying it on fucking thick. It worries me so fucking much”. Yeah right. The best thing this woman – sorry, I stand corrected: “fucking strong girl” – could do is trade in her “fucking lover” in for another fucking Birkin.
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