Tag Archives: Eton Boy

Ways to tell Eton Boy has returned to London

Posted on July 6, 2012 | 2 Comments

1) I have a hangover roughly the size and weight of China

2) I didn’t make it to the gym this morning

3) My bank account is quivering in fear

Yes, Eton Boy has landed in a blaze of glory. Frankly, the French economy should be worried now that it doesn’t have EB around to keep it afloat any longer.

We’d been considering a cozy soho pizza evening – copious amounts of red wine and carbs as standard – but then in an unprecedented act, the fecking sun only came out didn’t it? So we did what any self respecting Londoners with access to free tickets to everything would do, and dragged ourselves all the way out to the middle of nowhere (read: Kew Gardens) and sat on the grass, downed three bottles of rather decent white wine and nibbled on some gourmet cheeses to a backdrop of Tim Minchin singing songs about gingers.

I can hereby declare that it was a damn near perfect way to spend an evening.

As we chillaxed in the early evening sunshine (it’s like EB actually controls the elements with the unnecessary brightness of his crisp white jeans) we lamented last summer, hazy nights of drunken debauchery with Dawson’s Creek, afternoons at posh country clubs (they LOVE me there and don’t want to kick me and my flip flops out AT ALL) and questionable theatre, and EB dangled the carrot of an equally alcoholic 2012 summer before me.

‘But I go to bed early and go to the gym at 6am now!’ I protesteth.

‘Well,’ EB replies with a knowing smirk. ‘We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?’ Smug little get.

I refuse to give up my healthy new lifestyle. Frankly, I like my size 10 status, and my gym instructors are too darn attractive to miss out on, but I’m clearly going to have to do something about my boozing stamina, because after an evening trying to keep up with a man who’s spent the last year in Paris? Frankly, I feel like I have actually died, been buried, and then dug up again and propped up at my desk and forced to give a shit about the West End.

And I’ve just remembered putting a lunch date in the diary for next week.

Lord help me.

RitziCx

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Something’s Gotta Give…

Posted on October 28, 2011 | Leave a comment

I’ve been annoyingly busy of late. Which Eton Boy decided to point out to me ever so slightly maliciously after I’d spent the evening of the Cosmo Blog Awards rubbing his face in the fact that I was eating my body weight in Pizza in La Porchetta and he… was not.

‘Not blogging much at the moment though are you………….?’

Alright smart arse.

Yes, I do in fact appreciate the irony that the girl who writes about her crazy life in the West End is having SUCH a crazy life in the West End at the moment that she’s finding it rather tricky to find time to actually report said craziness to the blogosphere.

The thing is (insider info alert) the West End is a horrendous nightmare in the Autumn, purely due to the sheer quantity of STUFF going on. Shows are opening, closing, struggling to survive and just generally creating a lot of work for the theatrically inclined. The hours are long and the post show wine is very necessary, and so it’s natural that something’s gotta give. In this case, it happens to be my social life.

Well fuck that. Ritzi Cortez without a social life is like Harry Potter in contacts.

In theory I’ve made a conscious decision to limit theatre-going to once a week (admittedly, the day I made that decision I also tripped over my own feet in my haste to get my mits on tickets to The Last Of The Duchess in Hampstead but I digress). I will not be the girl who sleeps, then drinks coffee, then goes to work, then goes to the theatre, then drinks wine, then does it all again.

Time to throw a little fabulous back in.

So tonight, I’m donning a naughty Hallowe’en costume, and joining The Guru at The Hospital (it’s a club. Don’t have a cow) for a night of spooky festive fun. And men. And cocktails.

And I’ll be damned if I’m still stuck for something to write about in the morning.

RitziCx

 

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Bye… Ciao… See ya… EVERYONE IN MY FREAKIN LIFE!

Posted on September 1, 2011 | Leave a comment

So, apparently there’s a bad smell around London, because everyone seems to be leaving.

Dawson’s Creek has now gone back to the land of red vines and pop tarts. Neither of which she eats, which is just another blow.

Eton Boy left me on Wednesday to run away to gay Paris, after bounding off his “private jet” from Greece on Tuesday evening and stumbling into the pub to purchase the last over-priced bottle of wine and refusing to watch Legally Blonde for the last time in our purely platonic relationship (even though it is FECKING HILARIOUS), ready to rise and shine bright and early the next day and hop on the Eurostar to the land of crepes.

The Aussie is fecking off back to (you guessed it) Australia, for some kind of ridiculous dream career opportunity but frankly it means she’s not splitting a bottle of red with me on a Friday any more so I’m flatly refusing to congratulate her.

The Roman, veritable diva and constant source of hilarity and debauchery, has decided she fancies trying her chances stateside for a bit. Last week, we grabbed dinner (and a LOT of wine) and she flustered into the restaurant, throwing her belongings at the doorman (it was not that kind of restaurant) declaring; ‘Sorry I’m late, I just had one hell of an argument with the guy I’ve been shagging. Apparently, I forgot to tell him.’

‘Tell him what?’ Bemused and amused Ritzi asks, ignoring the sea of indignant faces surrounding her.

‘Oh, that I’m leaving. The country. Possibly forever.’

Dramatic pause. The Roman pours an insane amount of Pinot.

‘Ah well! He’s dumped me now, so problem solved. So, tell me Ritzi, what’s going on with you?’

I kid you not.

And now to top it off, Riff Raff has done what he has been threatening to do for the past three years, and actually decided he is moving his ass to Chicago to basically become a character in ER. And he’s taking my Illegitimate Godson and his mental wife with him. Riff Raff is some kind of super surgeon, granted, and the Windy City’s wounded is lucky to have him, but I have warned him to watch out for falling helicopters because frankly, bald headed surgeons with midlife crisis Jaguars do not have a very good survival rate there.

Of course, Maxie G has already left, and is living this mad cap pregnant life where she’s going to have a baby in France and call him Croissant, and live happily ever after with her dutch love…

And me?

Well, I’m just going to carry on working lots. Drinking lots. Forgetting to mail manuscripts. That sort of thing.

I might claw my way out of London debt and go on an adventure. As soon as I run out of eligible bachelors. Oh, wait…

Until next time (if you’re lucky)

RitziCx

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I Hereby Swear Never To Doubt Eton Boy’s Evil

Posted on July 20, 2011 | 4 Comments

Monday’s post was scheduled. I actually wrote it on Saturday. And on Saturday night, Eton Boy and I made dinner (Pizza, I know! We’re soooo domestic) while Dawson’s Creek joined in from East London over webcam. What a crazy Star Trek world we live in.

Basically, since DC told me about their little drunken encounter, I have been trying to get EB to spill the beans, but my efforts were in vain. I’d dropped hints, asked leading questions, invited DC to every possible event (even though I’d do that anyway, cos, you know, she’s DC) to see if he would say something along the lines of ‘oh, actually, do mind if we don’t invite her? I accidentally stuck my tongue down her throat the other day and it’s a bit awkward’… but no.

My last ditch attempt was on Saturday. We’d invited DC to Pizza and Dispicable Me night but she had politely declined in favour of wine and Gnocchi (which she pronounces ‘NO-KEY’. Weird. She also calls Nutella ‘NOO-TELLA’. I don’t get it either.) I tried to slip it into the conversation…

‘DC’s been a bit off this week, don’t you think?’ I asked.

‘Yeah.’ Brilliant. Great response EB.

‘Wonder what’s up with her?’

‘Don’t know, maybe she’s homesick?’

Aha, a sly move EB but remember, I know all!

Anyway, throughout the movie, we were both on our phones intermittently, but never at the same time. I wonder who we were both replying to?

So the text convo is going;

‘OMG, he just asked me if you know about what happened!’

‘But I haven’t told him I know!’

‘He said he’s going to ask you after the movie!’

‘Oh crap!’

And so on and so forth.

Hilariously, awkwardness aside, the pair of them had actually gotten over it by the time Monday’s post rolled around, but I figured I should pre-warn EB that it was showing up and request that he play along for dramatic effect, to which he replied with a drafted email listing all of the people he was going to send THIS LINK to if I published the post.

I published the post.

Thankfully, he didn’t ACTUALLY end my West End career by forwarding my url around the world, but he did send it to Dawson’s Creek. Who is probably reading this right now. And is working on building my American fanbase.

I’m scared.

RitziCx

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The Day They Let Ritzi Into A Film Premiere…

Posted on June 21, 2011 | Leave a comment

Honestly, I get everywhere.

Ritzi Cortez at Kung Fu Panda 2

The nice folk at Paramount recently had a crisis of sensibility and invited me to the UK premiere of Kung Fu Panda 2. Considering I had not (and still have not) seen Kung Fu Panda 1, I was off to a good start.

‘Help!’ I beseeched twitter. ‘What is the plot of Kung Fu Panda 1?’

The reply that popped into my inbox is a prime example of why my twitter followers are bloody brilliant.

‘There’s a panda. He does Kung Fu and eats a lot of chinese food. And he says awesome a lot. Then he saves the day.’

Right o, Kung Fu Panda 101… complete!

With Eton Boy as my date, I rocked up to Westfields (apparently they do film premieres in shopping malls these days – who knew?) in my topshop finery (it was a Sunday afternoon after all) and attempted to avoid the shops and head straight for the – and I quote – ‘Pandamonium’.

I failed miserably. I bought two bikinis and a maxi dress. Ah well.

Jack Black was there being all hilarious, and let me tell you he is teeny tiny. Yet wide of girth. But weirdly… I still would. Here he is demonstrating some key Kung Fu moves…

Jack Black doing some Kung Fu

Ritzi’s Review of Kung Fu Panda 2:

I thought I would be at a major disadvantage having not seen the first film, but it appears the general knowledge that the focal character is a giant panda who does Kung Fu is enough to keep you going. Cue some artsy animation of Chinese style cut outs for the expositional opening sequence, wherein one discovers that Peacocks, are in fact, evil raving psychopaths with a penchant for genocide.

Only Jack Black could endear the character of a big fat panda so well. Honestly, he’s completely lovable – particularly at the moment where he reveals to his fellow Kung Fu Furious Five mates that his dad might not actually be his dad. Quickly followed by deadpan Angelina Jolie’s best line;

‘Your dad… the goose?’

No kidding Panda face.

Gary Oldman genuinely terrifies me, much as I want to have rampant sex with his voice every single day and twice on Sundays. He plays a maniacal white peacock who is so deliciously evil it gave me goosebumps. Or peacock bumps. Or whatever. But he’s hilarious with it also.

The 3D is brilliant. I’m not usually a 3D kind of gal – it doesn’t generally do that much for me – but when you’re five rows from the front and a crazed peacock is pointing a razor sharp tail feather in your face, you shuffle back a lil bit.

So in short, I’m saying if you’re umming and ahhing at the cinema, go and have a giggle at Kung Fu Panda 2. It’s heartwarming and hilarious, and it has Gary Oldman as an evil peacock (did I mention that?).

Gary Oldman as an evil peacock

Skadoosh and all that.

RitziCx

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How The Other Half Roll…

Posted on May 22, 2011 | Leave a comment

Another glorious sunny weekend in London, and I somehow managed (through the wonder of berrocca and 3-4-2 Tropicana) to shake off the cold that has been plaguing me since my Thursday night quest to Shakespeare land, so I was well enough for fun and frolicks in the sunshine.

Enter Eton Boy, who randomly messaged me at the end of last week demanding we do something entertaining this weekend, since he’s just broken up with his girlfriend and has been feeling a bit glum.

- Before you say anything, can I just remind you… PURELY PLATONIC. Thanks. Back to the story.

So Eton Boy drops me a line and suggests we pop over to Hurlingham in his neck of the woods (thankfully only half an hour from MY neck of the woods) and also happens to mention that drinks are on him.

Ahem. I am there.

So it’s Saturday, I’m in my most fab palazzo pants and (thanks to extreme dieting) not looking like a whale in them for once, and en routre to Putney, when it strikes me that it’s really bloody warm outside, so I messaged Eton Boy just to check there was an outside at this place.

“At Hurlingham? Yes! LOTS of outside.” his response manages to mock my severe posh members club ignorance even over BBM. How does he do that?

Turns out, he was right to mock, because what I was picturing as some kind of Home House style town house was actually…


The Hurlingham Club

Bordering the Thames in Fulham and set in 42 acres of magnificent grounds, The Hurlingham Club is a green oasis of tradition and international renown. Recognised throughout the world as one of Britain’s greatest private members’ clubs, it retains its quintessentially English traditions and heritage, while providing modern facilities and services for its members. The Club continually looks at ways in which it can improve, for both current and future generations, the first-class social and sporting facilities within an elegant and congenial ambience.

Elegant and congenial ambience… and they’re letting ME in? I ask you. Whatever Eton Boy says, this place is a freaking COUNTRY CLUB. Or at least what I imagine a country club to be like after watching excessive amounts of Americanized television. We wandered the banks of the Thames while some very rah people in white played tennis nearby (all that white clothing? It’s a rule apparently. Sheesh), drank iced coffee and pints of Pimms in the courtyard while a pair of twentysomethings played BACKGAMMON beside us (I don’t even know the purpose of backgammon, let alone how to play it…) and while tweeting furiously in the rather lavish loos, I overheard…

Rah No.1 “Do you think I need a bit more botox?”

Rah No.2 “Hmm, maybe just a little around your eyes.”

Rah No.1 (while pulling at her unmoving face and gazing into the mirror) “Yes, your right. They are looking a little tense, aren’t they?”

Tense?

Suffice to say, I dashed out of the bathroom quick smart, before rahs 1 and 2 caught sight of the economy sized suitcases that currently resize under my own peepers.

A few hours later, and I had entered into a very privileged daydream where I’d made zillions selling the film rights to my (as yet unpublished) books, and frequently spent my days sipping beverages in the grounds of a fabulous country club and considering buying white clothes.

Eventually, six o’clock rolled round and the world didn’t end (#rapture – look it up) and we reluctantly extracted ourselves from the finer things in life and headed back to Eton Boy’s place so I could spruce before heading off to Soho House for a birthday bash. Sprucing done, we cracked open that old faithful… Wine for dinner.

Quite frankly, I think that settles it. Imagine trying to get red wine stains out of tennis clothes?

I’d better stay down here with the common folk.

RitziCx

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