By: Kai Teo
Photos and video: Isabell Wedin, Manolo Ty
Event: Ascot in Berlin – An especially special birthday party
Date: 18 July ’13
Hosts: Lady Gerry and Sir Manuel
Our rating: 4.5 out of 5
Every once in a while, Buddha Mag gets invited to ultra-exclusive parties that involve only the top rung of the society, including the likes of Rihanna, Mick Jagger and Michael Jackson’s kid, Blanket.
While we were in Berlin, our divine presence was kindly requested by the city’s high society to attend the birthday party of two of the most influential socialites in the bustling arts scene of Germany – Gerry and Manuel.
No, you might not know who they are. Because you were never this lucky.
Typically, birthday celebrations involve some cake, balloons, party poppers and those weird cone-shaped hats that make everyone look like a fucking clown. But this one had none of that lame shit.
It was pure class.
Tucked carefully away in the tastelessly posh district of Friedrichstrße is a lush, green garden adorned with rose bushes and other pretty green plants. We almost missed it on our way there, because it could’ve been mistaken for some dark corner that young lovers go to for a drunken quickie.
But 40 gorgeous people donning exquisite Victorian dresses, giant feathered hats, designer tuxedos and original snakeskin leather shoes were hard not to notice.
And hard not to love.
The theme for the evening was CLASS. PURE FUCKING CLASS. Well, they said it was English-style Horse Race Chic, but we’ve never been to a horse race before (we don’t believe in using animals for entertainment), so we didn’t really know what to expect.
And as a traveller who brought nothing more than rags, a straw hat and a bottle of cinnamon whisky, I had to cook up some story that I was playing the role of a diplomat from the native Indian tribe of Black Thunder. And the hosts were nice enough to pretend to believe me.
So I went around feeding everyone shots from my bottle and soon enough, I was good friends with everyone despite my lack-lustre appearance.
Shots create wonders. And fire up our primal instincts. Before long, dresses started tearing, ties came off, buttons and flies started opening up and by midnight, the prim and proper cocktail party had turned into an all-out mayhem of open flirting, dirty dancing and ass-whipping.
Now that. Is what we call a birthday party.
The secret garden had been transformed into a noisy, drunken gathering of lonely hearts. And everyone was taking turns violating the unicorn that I brought along. At the end of the evening, it looked used, abused, and very very dirty. I had named it raspberry, but it emerged from the chaos looking more like a dried prune.
I had to save it before someone decided to stick its horn into some inappropriate orifice. We bid a hasty goodbye and stumbled once again into the modern metropolis, leaving the distinguished guests and beautiful mess behind.
And what happened in the garden after that was best left buried in the bushes.