Belle De Jour - wibbler.com

Belle de Jour signs off

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Belle de Jour, prostitute, blogger and nearly a published author, is hanging up her mouse, presumably for contractual reasons. Either that, or she feels her job is done. For as long as she’s been blogging, I’ve been reading, and I’ll miss her well-turned phrases and lough-out-loud observations. As she eloquently put it, “All things pass. For instance: Harts the Grocer, I am saddened to note, are now Tesco Metro. But that is the way of things.” And she ends with a word of advice. “Don’t ever turn down pleasure because you were afraid of what other people might say.”
But a nagging thought plays on my mind – how will we ever know if she’s real now?

The Long, Dark Stag Night Of The Soul

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“The husband who wants a happy marriage should learn to keep his mouth shut and his checkbook open.”
Groucho Marx
Saturday was the Six Nations rugby cup final. Although, not least because the shower of fools managed to lose against the French, I won’t be talking about it. No, an event that eclipsed all others also took place that night – Matt’s stag do. Get a cup of tea – it’s a long story.
It was a cool, clear morning. The promise of copious drinking and a strip club brought to mind my mother’s advice – “Line your stomach, darling, and you won’t go far wrong.” This turned out to mean bananas and milk all round, and as I left home for Guildford that morning to meet Matt (Michelle’s brother), James and Paul, my lonely banana skin served as a foreboding reminder that things were about to get messy.
In fact, messy seemed an understatement. Take for instance our opening salvo, a few swift halves in Edwards bar in Guildford town centre. A quiet place, you’d think, at 2pm on a Saturday. Three scousers, who looked barely out of their nappies, decided that now was a good time to show how very hard they were, with the victim being some poor, misguided fool who had objected to them. Cue a minute of fighting, four on one, involving chairs and all sorts. It was a severe pasting, but the victim won no points for yelling after every break in pummelling “Come on then!”. They already had – and they did again five minutes later, finally finished with a blood-curdling sound of head against door frame. A good start, we thought, and swiftly left through the blood-spattered door to board a train for the Big Smoke.
Leicester Square was the obvious starting point and we made for the Sussex Arms, mindful of the need to pace ourselves to last the night. A few drinks and an Aftershock later, the plan was in ruins. We bounded merrily along, past the Nags Head, past Covent Garden with its wide, intricate arches and on to the Boks Bar. Rugby-watching was the plan, with a view to celebrating England’s victorious win, and the Boks Bar served us splendidly. A Female Tequila Dispenser was installed in this bar, and she had a particularly wiley way of getting a drink out of us. Togged up in Lara Croft garb, the shot glasses were arranged at conveniently racy points down her torso, which she proudly offered with minimal embarrassment. The picture of her kissing Matt was a great shot, and made us thankful we’d brought the camera. The tequila, however, was disappointing – at ?3.80 a shot, it was watered down, and Matt confronted her with the revelation that while we thought she was downing the shots with us, she was in fact swigging from another water-filled bottle on her left hip. To top it all, she walked off without giving change from ?16. By then, of course, alcohol had taken hold, and we couldn’t have cared less.
We watched the rugby. We cheered. We groaned. We threw things. We bloody lost. By then, Matt was suffering. He’d had his head in his hands for around 20 minutes, and we thought it was high time he got some air if he was going to last the night. It worked, in a way we’d never envisaged – within 2 minutes, he’d emptied his stomach. We pressed on.
Two more had joined us – Mo and his friend, who for completeness I’ll call Gunter. I have no idea of his actual name, but he was German, and a cheery bod. Eager to reach the climax of our night, we grabbed the fifth taxi we could find – the first four were either full or ignored us, rightly guessing we might be a bit of a handful – and sped away to Spearmint Rhino, the Gentleman’s Club.
We made it. More to the point, Matt made it. He was disasterously unwell, and his poor preparation (distinct lack of beer tolerance build-up, 3 hours sleep the previous night) was clearly telling. Once in, he headed straight for the great porcelain bowl, while we sped on to the main room.
And, frankly, what a place. I’ve waxed lyrical about the Caf? de Paris nightclub in my time. This was Caf? de Paris with strippers. If you’re going to go to a strip club, this is plainly the place to be. Mo got a round of drinks to shove in our gaping mouths, and we settled down on a plush red sofa. Topless women danced around, and homed in on us like flies. To save my mother’s blushes, I shall merely say that fun was had, especially by our german friend, who ended up ?120 lighter. After a brief geeky moment wondering if any of the young ladies was the “mysterious literary sensation” Belle De Jour, we left, noting that Matt the stag clearly wasn’t having the time of his life thanks to his unpredictable stomach.
We staggered home, amusing ourselves with the astonishingly near retail store of the company I work for, marvelling at the 130-step circular stairway down to Goodge Street tube station (possibly the most challenging drunken moment of my life), and bumping into my old friend Kate and her sister at Waterloo station. I cannot for the life of me remember what she said, but she’d just been to the party I was due to go to before Matt’s stag night reared its head. I think I said “small world” several hundred times. We eventually surfaced in Guildford early on Sunday morning, considerably worse for wear.
A fantastic night, so thanks to James the best man, who conceived the whole sordid idea, and to Paul, whose witty banter had my cheek muscles aching with pleasure. And to Gunter and Mo, whose dad owns my local Indian restaurant the Madhuban (which happens to be the best I’ve ever been to). And to Matt, who provided endless hours of amusement looking like death warmed up. For all I know he’s probably still recovering.
Now all that remains is to get the long-forgotten camera back from the strip club…

Belle De Speeling

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Such is the clamour for news of Belle de Jour’s identity, I’m sure the spelling of the word “seperate” (sic) in her latest post will cause all sorts of new and profoundly wrong claims about who (s)he is. If I was to analyse this little nugget, I would surmise that this fairly elementary mistake shows that she may not be an established writer, but also conversely that she doesn’t use the Blogger spellcheck (indicating that she’s usually an immaculate speller). But hey, I’m pretending not to be intrigued.
On second thoughts, shall I start the ball rolling? A quick search of Google throws up the names of Richard Spelling and, worryingly, Lisa Hilton again. Ah well, perhaps we’ll never know. It’s just as likely to be an autistic farmer from Wiltshire.

Belle De Jour – unmasked again…

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Belle de Jour, to those how are later on the draw that even I was this afternoon (videos, phonecalls and a particularly good FHM took up a goodly 4 hours), may have been unmasked by The Times. Although she may have been unmasked a couple of days ago too. And there’s a new rumour that it is in fact Lisa Hilton (here’s an article by Lisa that’s very Belle). In fact, everyone wants to be the author. The only one denying it’s them is Belle herself
I think a clue’s in the website address. belledejour-uk. why put the “UK” bit in? Was someone using “belledejour” already? Or was it part of a global strategy from someone who doesn’t live in the UK anyway? Whatever – I’d prefer not to know. More anonymous is more fun, as someone might have said.

Belle de Jour crosses the atlantic

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News of the blog Belle De Jour, for a long while a favourite of wibbler.com, has crossed the Atlantic – New York Post’s article “Kiss & Tell” describes Belle as “a fascinating character” and digs into whether it’s a real blog or not. The daily updates detail the seedy and not-so-seedy life of a London call girl, but it’s not for that reason I read it: it’s mainly because Belle, as I’ve mentioned before, is a good writer. A very good writer. And as for whether it’s real or not: I hope it is. Some wonder how a call girl can write so darn well, but Belle defends herself: “I have met stone-boring Ph.D.s and plumbers who were geniuses. I don’t think job choice is necessarily a reflection of talent or intelligence.” I know that many of the places she describes are accurate, and hell, even if it isn’t real it’s a jolly good read. But catch it while you can: she’s hinted that she may not be around for that long. “It would be a little depressing,” she says, “to be known the rest of your life as the documentarian whore.”