From the 2011 archives, in case you missed it…
File this under: totally embarrassing.
When I was in London back in April, I spent my first few nights staying with my friend Jerramy Fine, author of Someday My Prince Will Come and the upcoming book Bright Young Royals. I was there writing articles about Kate Middleton’s imminent wedding and Jerramy was prepping to launch her Princess Prep camp, so like any good royal obsessives, we spent several hours deep-diving on all things Windsor.
Jerramy had been invited to take part in a Grazia magazine article on “Harry Hunters”: American women who come to England to stalk Prince Harry in the hopes of becoming the next Kate Middleton. She was fairly horrified by the idea, but me being, well, me, I thought it was hilarious and wanted to take part. Grazia is sort of the UK equivalent of People magazine but with more fashion and beauty–a nice mention for a budding royalty writer. After my press debacle several years ago, I’ve developed a thicker skin: any press is good press, as long as they spell your name correctly, right? (Oh! Silly Jolie! Have you learned nothing?)
Hey, at least I got the cover! (See the top headline: Out on the town with the (Prince) Harry Hunters)
For an article I was writing for Daily Front Row called “Kate Middleton’s Great Britain”, I was supposed to hit up Kate’s hot spots, including Boujis and Mahiki, so when I found out that the Harry Hunters would be going to both, plus Whisky Mist, plus free drinks all night, plus a fun photoshoot–well! No brainer! I thought it was a genius idea: I’d get a chunk of my club research done, would be guaranteed entrance to Boujis (which is still pretty tough to get into) and would be able to write a hopefully hilarious blog post after the fact telling you guys all about the Harry Hunters and what a silly night it was.
Cut to me arriving at the hotel for the photo shoot, where I discover that it’s myself, another (very, very young) American girl, and the Grazia reporter. So…suddenly I am 50% of this so-called Harry Hunters phenomenon, and the crackerjack reporter is there to sniff out my Harry mania…which doesn’t exist. Crap. (Now were this a “Kate Middleton Hunters,” it’d be a totally different situations, obvs.)
I will summarize the highlights of the night for you:
We arrive at Mahiki. I’m a little jetlagged, as I arrived in England only the previous day, but this is surely going to be worth any sleepiness tomorrow. Velvet ropes unclick! Doors open! A horrifyingly expensive–and amazingly delicious–Treasure Chest is placed before us. Hurrah!
Grazia writer: So, we’re going to be here at Mahiki for just a few minutes, then hit up Whisky Mist, then go to Boujis. As you know, Prince Harry isn’t even in town: he’s in the Arctic on a trek right now. But our readers don’t have to know that. We’ll just pretend we’re looking for him!
We the “Harry Hunters”: That’s nice. More drinks, please!
Grazia writer: (telling us about her boy drama and distaste for “toffs”)
Me: (talking about how I’m not really a Harry Hunter)
The other “Harry Hunter”: (talking about she thought it would be fun to be in a magazine while doing her study abroad–Harry’s fine, but she actually prefers William)
The photographer snaps picture after picture, then whisks us to the next venue, Whisky Mist. It’s not yet open. We wait outside for half an hour. The clipboard girl sniffs at us repeatedly. Once inside, it’s empty and all the staff is surly. It ends up being the worst club I’ve ever been to in my entire life.
Me (jetlagged, becoming annoyed, headache growing): So, how long are we going to be here?
Grazia writer: Long enough to take a photo or five. Soooo, when did you first become obsessed with Prince Harry?
Me: Um. As I already said…I’m not actually obsessed with Prince Harry. I thought it would be fun to do this for a laugh. (I reach into my purse, pull out Flat Kate, begin to regret my choices in life.)
The photographer takes another seemingly endless round of photos before we’re finally free to leave. They herd us into a cab to Boujis, where we’re ushered inside like VIPs–success!–and given a private table.
Grazia writer, to me: This is great! So posh! Soooo, how often do you go to clubs looking for Prince Harry?
Me (wanting to stab myself in the eye): Liiiiike I said, I’m not really a Harry Hunter.
I take a Crackbaby shot, give the reporter and the other American hugs, and hop in a $7000 cab back to Jerramy’s house.
It’s my 2nd night in England, and I’m in bed by midnight.
How fun! How silly!
How did it all go so wrong?!
The article came out a few days later, and it made me look like such a lame asshole (see video below) that, obviously, I never blogged about it, let alone told many people.
But now! I am revealing my sordid past to you. Consider this my coming out press conference and judge not, kind friends. Who among us hasn’t been profiled in an English magazine pretending to be in love with a member of the royal family? It could happen to anyone, really.