Acquaint yourself with a guest you don’t want at your party.
Sunday Times’ Margarette Driscoll writes a blistering insider evisceration of Madonna’s “celebration” of the book Becoming Like God at London’s Home House, suggesting that entrance into the land of Kabbalah is purely lip service for some celebrity friends. Surprise!
However, turncoat Driscoll goes for the throat early on, criticizing the materialistic aspirations of red bracelets and blessed mineral water.
Driscoll asks: “So we shouldn’t be worried about the allegations of money-making?”
“Slowly, slowly catchee monkey,” [Madonna] says mysteriously. “The fact of the matter is that people are criticising Kabbalah because it’s pushing a button. They are paying attention because it is rankling people’s nerves.”
“Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey?”
We picture Liz Rosenberg crouched to receive an incoming coconut.
However, anyone reading can see that Driscoll is the Kevin Peake of this party, the embedded reporter/ally giggling with Demi, Donatella, and Gwyneth until she runs into the ladies room and confesses to the celebrity journalism priestess in her best perfunctory personality prose:
“Anyone else in that outfit would look like Princess Anne, but tiny Madonna has a glow about her that transcends her outfit. At 46 her skin is flawless, her eyes heavily made-up, her hair glossy and expertly tinted. She has been a superstar for 20 years, selling more than 250m records and reinventing herself over and over again, from the crop-topped ingenue of Holiday, one of her early hits, to the sophisticated rerun of Like a Virgin on MTV last year.”
Kiss a little more ass and you too can go to Kaballah heaven, even after you’ve completely trashed its highest priestess. Still, the party went on a bit too long for Driscoll and the hangover began to catch up as she had a few words regarding Madonna’s friends’ devotion to the cause:
“Although [her guests are] happy to drink her champagne, at the end of the evening the stack of books by the exit remains almost untouched.”
Unfortunately for Driscoll, Esther was probably already whisked off into the English woods, thinking of things other than bitterness and defeat.
