The Andrew problem: a short story

People offended by name-dropping are absolutely no fun. I’ve experimented with this concept on five continents – OK, four: Antarctica’s social whirl isn’t what it might be – and those who roll their eyes at shocking new developments in the world of celebrity are just the worst. Not content with having zero information to offer, they diminish what is given, and in a more efficient world such bores would be carried at high speed to the guillotine. I take my cue in these matters from the great name-droppers of all time, who, in no particular order, are James Boswell, Pope John XXIII, Lee Strasberg, Truman Capote, Nelson Mandela, Andy Warhol, Nicky Haslam and His Majesty King Charles – and that’s before you even reach the world of altitude-sick politicians, people such as the late Henry ‘Chips’ Channon, a man who couldn’t wash his hands without making reference to Pontius Pilate, Lady Macbeth or the man who invented Palmolive. Name-dropping, like baby-sitting, is a word without equivalent in either German or French, and its domination by men is really quite striking, as I once told my friend Karl Lagerfeld.

My main value to my clients is that I never speak to the press, and that’s the God’s Honest Truth. My dear mother, a fan of astrology and dog trainers, told me I had a Copernicus Complex (the world revolves around me) and that I adore being in charge of the information. Mummy’s a legend but doesn’t actually know me. I do share what is shareable, but I put myself at the centre of things because that’s where my clients expect me to be. It’s troubling, I admit, that there are galaxies out there, suburbs, parts of Belgravia for heaven’s sake, where people are definitely wearing the wrong thing. I hate it, but I’m here to help.