the times | Wednesday December 2 2020 1GT 9

times

Rita Ora and, below,

Cara and Poppy

Delevingne

Humans are not machines, though.

For loners lockdown has been easy;

for gregarious fun-loving people,

which cities are full of, it’s near

impossible to stick to the rules. Parties

have occurred. I should know, I’ve

been to a few. The form, though, is

to lie about it.

Nothing huge; no more than 10,

20 if you include the kids and the

dogs. Are we all idiots in Notting

Hill? The little dinners here and

there have become more and

more regular. If it is illegal for a

child to have a playdate, a nice

law-abiding mum might think:

“Well, I’ve broken that, might as

well have a dinner for six or so.”

A few weeks ago I had a delicious

meat pie and red wine with four

friends, including two ladies closer

to 80 than 70.

Do I sound accuser or apologist?

If I were anything, it would be the

latter, but I am trying to be

neither, in truth. If we condemn

the celebrities — the easy targets

— then we are being revoltingly

hypocritical. This virus has been

brilliant at exposing hypocrisy,

even among the very scientists,

politicians and those Spads,

their advisers, who are

designing these rules.

So in the spirit of solidarity,

I’ll admit that this month I

celebrated a landmark birthday with a

T

hroughout both

lockdowns, police

helicopters have

hovered low over the

grotty end of Notting

Hill in London, where

I live in the arse end of

the Royal Borough of

Kensington and Chelsea. They were

back two nights ago. WHUMP

WHUMP overhead; it’s like a scene

from Apocalypse Now. My boyfriend

and I lay next to each other, rudely

awakened. “What do you reckon it is

this time? Have they found another

member of a terrorist cell? A big

gangland drug bust?” “Nah, I expect

it’s worse than that. Rita Ora’s having

another birthday party.”

The restaurant, Casa Cruz, where

she and her mates, including the

Delevingne sisters, gathered last

Saturday night and were so publicly

busted, is spitting distance from my

home. It sits next to a 1930s red-brick

social-housing estate on one side and

five million quid townhouses on the

other — lovely pastel-coloured houses

like the ones in the Paddington movie.

With its huge rose-gold door and

twinkling roof terrace, Casa has a rich

and loyal set of regulars.

According to one of Ora’s guests,

they had to take their own booze in

and ordered takeaway sandwiches.

The implication is that the place was

made available for them to gather

rather than for a full-blown catered

party. It was a bit naive to think

someone wouldn’t call the paps, but

they did, then the police turned up.

Casa opened its doors illegally once

for the Ora party. It’s not alone. Other

restaurants have sneaked their trusted

regulars in through the back door. I

know of high-end and mid-range

places that have turned, legitimately,

to takeaway services to shore up their

income and, illegitimately, allowed a

few regulars in for lunch and dinner.

One restaurateur I know said that

he spoke to his lawyers before this

lockdown, trying to work out where he

would sit legally if he “slipped up” and

let an event happen. Elsewhere in

Notting Hill, “lockdown lock-ins” were

whispered about between a trusted

not-so-few.

These little episodes have been

happening up and down the country.

Parties and restaurants are fined for

transgressing lockdown rules, but the

presence of a celebrity has made this

an exception, albeit one that proves

the rule. Word is that the media heat

means something worse than a

£10,000 fine could be heaped on his

business. The truth is that this little

debacle just reflects where a lot of

people are up and down the country.

Juan Santa Cruz is the Chilean who

runs the restaurant. I don’t know if he

was aware of the Rita Ora party. I

can’t afford to eat at his place, but I

have interviewed him a few times over

the years. People who work in the

restaurant and bar business and make

a success of it tend to bleed hospitality;

it’s their lifeblood to please.

Santa Cruz is a cracking example of

this type, and has for several years

been the facilitator of larks for a fun-

loving, moneyed crowd. He created a

tiny nightclub under his Mayfair

restaurant, Isabel, so famous people

could party in privacy. As the staff

were coming in to start breakfast

service, some of Santa Cruz’s favourite

clients could sometimes be seen

leaving at dawn clutching a

complimentary bacon sandwich.

Is that decadent? Maybe. Last time I

looked we weren’t a nation of Puritans,

we were a pretty free country where

our capacity for a good time was in

some ways what defined us to the

outsiders who flocked here to party

and enjoy our incredible nightlife.

This has changed since lockdown,

and fair enough. The virus is real and

unknown. Hospitality has been seen as

the non-essential part of our economy

where mixing can be stopped.

Rita Ora isn’t the only lockdown

rule-breaker. It’s everywhere

From birthday

gatherings to

secret raves, there

are bashes going

on all around,

says Kate Spicer

friend and seven others. We drank

champagne and wine, ate poached

salmon, then sculled tequila until 4am.

We wondered: “What if the police

come and we are fined?” We said we

would split it. Which is exactly what

was said at the house-leaving party for

30 in Battersea that another friend of

25 went to. “The girl on the door said,

‘You enter this event in the knowledge

that if we are busted we split the bill.’

No neighbours complained.”

I have a dog-walking friend who

went to an outdoor party in the

countryside on private land. To move

the 100 partygoers between two sites,

a tractor with a flatbed trailer was

used, with the guests all piled up. In

the surrounding villages, friends and

allies with walkie-talkies kept an eye

on things to ensure there were no

raids or trouble.

She went to another party in east

London, again restricted to 100, that

flew in internationally renowned DJs,

who can be hired pretty cheaply right

now, if you can persuade them to

break lockdown. At another party in

Soho for 30 or 40 the police moved in

and fined the host who then said:

“Well I’ve paid it now, might as well

carry on.” The police returned a while

later to explain that it didn’t work like

that. You win some, you lose some.

It’s not just us entitled dickheads

in town. A friend in Somerset

describes secret wild-swimming

cliques of ten middle-aged women and

of after-school woodland raves where

mums and their kids go to the forest

together with a flask of tea and dance

around for an hour. This, too, is not

allowed. The idea of the police

enforcing lockdown on a bunch of

mums and their primary-age kids is

just ludicrous.

Yes, the rich tend to do what the hell

they want. Not long ago I was

interviewing Tamara Beckwith about

her cancer charity. A committed

socialite of many decades, she lives for

her lunches and parties, but said she

didn’t mind her “cosy” lunches for six

(when they were allowed) and

expressed consternation at the

number of people in her international

address book who were throwing

christenings for 60 and weddings for

200. “Really?” I’d said, somewhat
     dumb with incredulity. “Yes,” she said.
     However, I suspect the lockdown
     rave-up is far more widely experienced
     than just among my spoilt chums in
     west London. My friend and I have
     argued about how the rules are
     different in my royal borough from his,
     Hackney, but I beg to differ. Friends,
     especially younger ones, on that side
     of London describe going to raves
     where the police quietly walk in at
     around 4am and shut everything
     down, despite seemingly having
     knowledge of the event long before
     they make their presence felt.
     Like that bit in the old movie where
     they all stand up in allegiance with
     the leader of the slaves’ revolt, crying,
     “I’m Spartacus,” perhaps all of us
     should stand up and be counted and
     say: “I’m Rita Ora.”

RITA ORA/INSTAGRAM

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