by Ollie Locke
She had an air of naughtiness around her, which simultaneously excited and frightened me. I sensed that she might be a bit of a heartbreaker, so I held myself back a little from her. She was studying at Durham University, and while I visited her a few times, there was always the worry at the back of my mind that she might be being unfaithful. How could someone that gorgeous go to university and not snog loads of people?
Meanwhile, Richard, Alex and I were asked to take part in a TV show called Natalie Cassidy’s Real Britain. Antalya was originally asked to do it because she was often featured as an ‘It Girl’ in Richard Kay’s page in the Daily Mail, but a show like that is her idea of hell so she suggested us.
It was a series of six episodes about young Britons, and our episode was called ‘Tradition about Aristocracy’. Of course, I was the token ridiculous non-aristocratic one on it, much as I am in Made in Chelsea.
We went to visit Brocket Hall as Alex’s dad, Lord Brocket, was featured, and we also had to do an army assault course so we could experience what our forefathers would have done during their time in the Army. I was worried that I would come across as a total dick and I didn’t want to be portrayed as the kind of guy I went to Cirencester with. But actually, it was fine, and we loved it. I asked the producers if they could keep me in mind for any other TV stuff as I had decided that I wanted to work in television.
A few weeks later the show came out and we’d planned to go to 151 to celebrate but Alex was too tired to come. In order to try to change his mind, I texted him saying, ‘Alex, there are literally 30 women here who saw the show and they’re loving it. You’re missing out. I’m going to pretend I don’t have a girlfriend tonight.’ It wasn’t true, I was just winding him up so he would come and join us and I thought the idea of 30 beautiful women would do the trick. Of course I thought it was hilarious, but sadly the joke was on me when I realised seconds after sending it that I had, in fact, sent it to Boho Girl. I spent the next half an hour drunkenly grovelling to her and trying to explain myself, but needless to say, it went down as well as you would imagine.
Over time, as much as I tried to tell myself I was over London Girl, I clearly wasn’t. I thought about her a lot which, coupled with me not fully trusting Boho Girl, and now her not trusting me, meant that the relationship was doomed to fail before it had ever really begun. After one final trip to Durham, where I seem to recall suggesting we did role play in bed to save the sex life at least, we called it quits.
It seemed that I was destined to fail when it came to matters of the heart, so there was only one thing for it – it was time for me to return to my first love. The one who has always treated me right. Who has been there for me in my darkest hours. Yes, that’s right: fish. Rather bizarrely, through hanging out at 151 I’d come to know a cab driver aptly called ‘Ian the Fish’, who would take you home for about £3. At the end of the journey he would open his boot and offer you a goldfish. He used to breed them and there would be hundreds of them in there, swimming around in plastic bags like you get at the fair. I always thought it to be quite rude to refuse, so there I’d be at five in the morning, alone, drunkenly carrying another goldfish into my flat. It was small compensation for a girl but at least I didn’t wake up alone. You could tell how good a night you’d had when you woke up in the morning by whether or not you had a fish. If you had one, you’d got really drunk so it must have been a good night. If you didn’t, you’d been sober enough to refuse. I used to have them in vases and all sorts, and in the end I had to go and buy a tank to keep them all in.
As fun as it might sound, the club scene was, in truth, pretty awful a lot of the time. I would often be found clearing up sick and collecting glasses. Someone once did a poo in a urinal and I had to put a glove on and pick it up. It was pretty rank.
We didn’t have a uniform as such, but I had my standard self-styled wardrobe, which consisted of long hair, white jeans, cowboy boots and a shirt. I’ll always look back on those days with great affection and over two years of being a cleaner I learned so much. But my dream of working in television was always at the back of my mind. And I really didn’t ever want to have to pick up someone else’s shit again!
Clubbing and London go hand in hand. People flock to the capital’s bright lights, where they dance the night away at clubs like Mahiki and Raffles. People will always love clubs, as will I. I did a lot of my growing up in them and they’re somewhere I feel very comfortable. Almost at home, I guess. Like any business, the club scene has its secrets. And having worked on the door of many clubs and bars, I know most of them:
• The most important thing to remember if you want to get into one of the cooler nightclubs in London is that you need to demonstrate complete confidence without coming across as arrogant. Arrogance will not get you through the door, but you do need to apply a little bit of pressure. If you rock up to a club and just stand there waiting to be let in when there’s a massive queue, it won’t happen. You need to approach whoever is on the door and actually speak to them. In some clubs a £20 note in the back pocket often helps, because otherwise they’ll happily leave you standing there for an hour and then tell you they are at capacity.
• The excuses that door hosts use most often – and which generally aren’t true – are the following:
The club is at capacity
There are too many men in there already
It’s over 21s night
They’ve got a private party on
It’s members only
Nine times out of 10 these things won’t be true. Another much-used phrase is ‘please try our sister bar down the road’. This other venue is rarely affiliated with the club in any shape or form, but it’s just a way to get people to go to another club.
• If I was working the door and someone came up to me and said, ‘Ollie, darling!’ and kissed me on both cheeks, I felt like I had to let them in because I had a connection to them. Even if they’d never met me before in their lives and someone had told them my name seconds earlier, I would assume I’d have met them before and that they might be someone really important. It’s a very simple trick, but it works.
• Clothes are also very important. You have to know what you’re dressing for. You’re not going to get into a club if you’re wearing a velour tracksuit. I’m not saying you have to be the most beautiful person in the world and be head to toe in designer clothes, but you need to have a certain attitude and look. Wear what you feel great in because that will give you the confidence you need to blag your way in. And confidence doesn’t necessarily mean baring all – just because you’ve got killer legs you don’t have to wear a cheek-skimming mini dress that makes you look like Jodie Marsh circa 1994.
• When it comes to getting served at a crowded bar, don’t start waving your money around in the air in an attempt to look flash. The people working behind the bar won’t appreciate it. You need to let them see you’re paying with cash because it’s quicker than using a credit card and they also think you’re more likely to give them a tip. But using your £50 note as a barman-luring flag will not work.
• Another tip is to make eye contact with one of the bar staff and hold it for as long as you can. Always stare at the same person. If you try to get the attention of too many people at once you’re far less likely to get served. Focus on whoever is serving nearest to you and don’t let them out of your sight. They will feel uncomfortable and want to serve you as soon as possible to get rid of you. Seriously, try it next time you’re in a crowed bar.
• If you want to get in somewhere for free or get a table, you need to know the promoter. Some club promoters like to act as if they’re loaded and important, but they can be a shallow lot and their friendship can usually be bought with good conversation over a few drinks. And once you’ve got an ‘in’ with them, you’re usually sorted for future events, especially if you bring lots of friends along as you make his/her job easier, especially if they’re a hot crowd. People always used to call me and ask is there any way o
f getting another friend into the club? At the end of the day, that just puts another £5 in his pocket, so if you bring 100 people he/she’ll be over the moon. Some clubs in London even offer a free dinner for 20, free drinks and entry, particularly if the clients are attractive and cool, because it makes the club look good.
• There’s even a hierarchy with celebrities when it comes to clubs. Fame doesn’t always offer you instant access, because you need the right kind of fame. Having said that, don’t assume that all places around Chelsea are snobby or out of reach. Clubbing has changed a lot, especially around Chelsea. These days it’s all about having fun. Some of the hottest places to go are the most down-to-earth. Bunga Bunga is a karaoke and pizza bar, and it’s packed every night and booked up for months. Maggie’s is Margaret Thatcher themes and 80s themed, Bodo’s Schloss is based on a ski resort complete with a ski pod DJ booth and Mahiki is like walking into Hawaii (Mahiki actually means the Polynesian underworld). It’s not all about aristocrats drinking bottles of vodka (although there is still quite a lot of that!). Above all, it’s about having a good time and forgetting your troubles for the night.
I felt it was time to stop kissing frogs and find my future wife. Like in all good fairytales, I knew what had to be done: I needed a love potion. Thankfully the cosmetic shop Lush provided the answer to my prayers, with a heart-shaped bath bomb that has rose petals inside.
According to the instructions, when the sixth rose petal is released you make a wish, which will lead you to a lifetime of happiness. I can’t believe I’m actually admitting this, but I bought so many of those bloody bombs that I lost count! Tina in the King’s Road branch was very accommodating and I had so many baths in the vain hope they might actually work. Those were the actions of a desperate man. At least I didn’t smell like a nightclub and was always incredibly clean. Now, I’m not sure it was anything to do with the love potion, but I did meet a girl soon afterwards who, to this day, I still regret losing.
I’d been invited to attend Polo in the Park with a group of friends. It’s a three-day polo tournament that’s held in Hurlingham Park at the Hurlingham Club in Fulham and it’s enormous fun.
The royals were there and it was all fabulously posh. I love the royals and I’ve been lucky enough to meet a number of them over the years. In fact, I once taught Princess Eugenie how to use eyelash curlers. I was working on the door of a nightclub and she came over and asked me if my eyelashes were real. When I said they were, she asked how I got them to look like they did. Eyelash curlers, my darling. ‘All you do is squeeze them together over your eyelashes for eight to ten seconds,’ I said. ‘You can get them in Boots!’ My life was ridiculous.
Across the crowded bar at Hurlingham Park, I spotted a beautiful girl with long brown hair. All I could think was ‘who the fuck is that? I have to meet her.’ I swear she looked identical to Nina, my elusive older barmaid from Hayling Island. She was absolutely incredible. It wouldn’t be long before I’d have to leave for work at 151, where I’d inevitably be clearing up sick, so I needed to go and ask for her number. But of course I didn’t. I was far too scared of being rejected, Hattie Clarke style.
I may or may not have followed her for about 10 minutes or so but all I managed was a pre-pubescent, slightly squeaky ‘hi!’ when she walked past me. I didn’t manage to build up the courage to say anything more and felt really bummed out about the fact that I would probably never see her again. I cursed myself the whole way to 151.
At the end of a hectic shift at the club, I stayed for a few drinks with the rest of the staff. At 4am we suddenly heard this loud thudding on the front door. I ran upstairs and could see that it was torrential rain outside. Through the window I could make out a female figure standing there dripping wet, trying to cover her hair with a pink pashmina. As I opened the door, she removed the pashmina in the same way that Aladdin’s Princess Jasmine did in that market to the guards, and revealed herself to be the beautiful polo girl. If possible, she looked even more beautiful in her dishevelled state. Her rain-soaked dress clung close to her body, highlighting an amazing figure. It was like a scene from a fabulous rom-com – like Four Weddings and a Funeral without Andie MacDowell’s slightly annoying voice. She said she was staying with her friend in the flat above the club but had been locked out, and asked if she could come in to shelter from the rain. Of course, I willingly obliged as I knew that I’d been given a second chance and I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to miss this one. We got talking, she told me her name (but we shall call her Polo Girl) and that she worked in marketing – and that was the start of the most normal relationship I have ever had. We started texting and things progressed really quickly, despite it being difficult to see enough of one another because I worked nights and Polo Girl worked days. There was absolutely no drama. No worry. She liked me. I liked her. I met her family. She met mine. It was the type of relationship everyone dreams of. It was normal, and it could have been that way forever.
Then four months later, Polo Girl told me she wanted to go and live in New York for six months to work in fashion PR.
Of course, I was gutted – we hadn’t known each other for long but I was happy – but I didn’t want to stand in her way. We decided to try to make things work, with the help of Skype sex, but as with my previous long-distance relationships the miles did eventually split us up. Much in the same way as when I moved to London and grew apart from London Girl, Polo Girl felt like she had a whole new life to enjoy. We remained friends, but I always feel like she’s one of the ones that got away.
I once said to her that the next guy she went out with after me she would marry, and she’s now been in a very happy relationship for three years. It’s probably only a matter of time, and I really hope he does propose because she deserves someone who will make her happy.
I’ve been in three relationships that I honestly thought could have ended in marriage. I know where I want to be when I propose to the right girl: Port Quin, my favourite place in Cornwall. There’s a little tiny lookout point there called Doyden Castle, which has the most incredible sea views and it’s my hideaway from the rest of the world.
I love weddings, and in fact if I were to have a complete change of career then why not as a wedding planner? It’s something I could definitely do as I know how to put on large-scale events having worked in clubs for so many years.
With Polo Girl off to the States, I hadn’t got the fairytale ending my love bomb had promised me and I felt that life was slightly passing me by. I had a roof over my head, good friends and the work was regular, but being a club promoter doesn’t have the most amazing prospects and my love life was dead in the water. Then two girls entered my life who were set to change it forever. Those girls were my Binky and Cheska. If you watch Made in Chelsea you will know that the three of us are inseparable. So it may surprise you to know that we only met for the first time four years ago.
I was organising a party in a bar on the King’s Road and Cheska was the publicist. We got on from the word go, and I loved how opinionated and fiery she was, but also that she had a sweet side. She didn’t take any crap and yet people still loved her. She is one of the most amazing girls you’ll ever meet.
She looked very different back then because she was a brunette. It was only when she later joined MIC that she went blonde.
We now live together and are so close but we do bicker in the same way that a brother and sister would. I can honestly say I have never met anyone who has as many unused beauty products or unworn clothes as Cheska. She’s a real hoarder and refuses to throw anything away just in case she’ll need it. I used to be like that (though I still have my sex capsule. You never know when the internet connection may go down).
Cheska lived with Binky, who back then was working for a property company. Slightly worrying, I know, but luckily it was not in infrastructure. I met her through a mutual friend and, hilariously, she was trying to be set up with me. Because she’s so beautiful I was, of course, happy to oblige and I used
my best flirting techniques on her, which generally involved sticking my finger up her nose – something that has never stopped.
We are a strong trio and even though we argue now and again, I couldn’t live without them. I call them ‘Tranny 1’ and ‘Tranny 2’, and they’re even programmed into my phone as that. It’s not meant in a derogatory way, I just gave them the nicknames because they take so fucking long to get ready for a night out and each eyelash has to be perfectly in place in a way that only trannies or celebrities can get away with.
Without them I would probably have gone slightly crazy (OK, even more so). We’ve all got each other through difficult points in our lives and I know they’re there anytime, day or night, if I have a problem.
They sometimes fight over me because they get jealous if one is getting more attention, which I secretly love. I have very different relationships with them both. Binky and I are always wrestling and my hands and her boobs are best friends, whereas Cheska and I are more civilised and our relationship is based on drinking wine and chatting. I guess it’s a slightly more mature friendship. They’re like my little sister and my big sister.
The three of us were all as skint as each other back then, so when one Sunday Binky and Cheska invited me over to their shared flat I took over Domino’s pizza and some wine and we all got really pissed. Cheska went to bed to give Binky and I some alone time because it was so obvious that I liked her. Nothing had yet happened between us so while watching a shit film I strategically started to do the whole ‘stretch your arm down the back of the sofa so you can move in closer’ manoeuvre. I spent ages building myself up to go in for the kiss, but by the time I had plucked up the courage, closed my eyes and leant in, she was asleep.
