A Londoner's Diary

Dylan Jones on the paranoia of politicians, partying with Tarantino and the perils of feeding time at The Wolseley

The coolest thing in Hollywood right now is not an imported Audi RS 6, nor is it a bespoke suit by Richard James. No, positively the coolest thing in Hollywood at the moment is being able to say you witnessed Helmut Newton's fatal car crash. I was in Los Angeles last week and met three people who independently all claimed to have seen the photographer's car career into a wall outside the Chateau Marmont in January. And each of them said it with the same sort of conspiratorial pride they might use when saying they'd been to an extra-special sneak preview of Kill Bill: Vol 2. The first time I met Helmut Newton who basically made a career out of convincing models to do the most outrageously sexy things he was sitting in the grounds of the Chateau, barely 100 yards from where he would die a decade later. When I asked him who he was waiting for, he said, in his comically stereotypical German accent, 'A girl, a lovely young girl.

I've spent all my life waiting for girls.' Iwas in LA because David Furnish was hosting a party for us in the penthouse at the Chateau.

GQ makes regular trips to the West Coast, although this was the first time we'd held an actual party there, and our excitement was somewhat tempered by high anxiety.

Would anyone come?

In the end we needn't have worried, as the world and his tummy- tucked mistress turned up, along with Elton John, Chloe Sevigny, Sharon Osbourne, Quentin Tarantino, Thora Birch, Gavin Rossdale, Joel Silver, Tracey Emin, David LaChapelle, Nicky Hilton, the cat's mother et al. As uber-publicist Stephen Huvane said to me that night, 'Do you have parties like this in London?' Back in London I go to interview Shadow Chancellor Oliver Letwin, and the most bizarre thing happens.

While he came across as the consummate Tory politician, it seems his propensity for putting his foot in his mouth has made him rather wary of the press.

Because, when I sat down to interview him in his chambers, he turned on his own cassette recorder. This is only the third time this has happened to me, and Letwin joins Morrissey and Michael Winner in an extremely unholy trinity of paranoid public figures. He needn't have worried, as I thought he was perfectly reasonable (for a politician, anyway). And charming to boot.

Those of you with a classical education will no doubt know this, but it has been pointed out to me that reality TV shows such as Big Brother and Back to Reality were actually kick-started by the Greek statesman Pericles. It was he who invented ostracism, he who encouraged the government to vote people out of public life (politicians used to vote by holding up shards of pottery). I think this is something which could be revived more literally, and if asked to nominate any contenders would go for Jade Goody, Jordan, Peter Andre and Sting. Why? Well, it's a good place to start, isn't it?

Unlike most people, I was rather circumspect when The Wolseley opened just before Christmas, and while I was certain that Chris Corbin and Jeremy King would have another huge hit on their hands, I wasn't sure if it was for me.

But having been there a dozen times now, I realise it is, and I'm mightily relieved I can still get a table. My best experience so far has been tea. A few Saturdays ago I took my wife and kids to see the Philip Guston exhibition at the Royal Academy and then made an impromptu visit to The Wolseley.

The staff couldn't have been nicer, which is not always the case when presented with two small girls in search of chocolate cake and mayhem.

Waiters who are nice to children will not only get their just deserts in the next life, they'll get them in this one, too.

Out of the mouths of babes, they say, although even children couldn't come up with some of the things I heard last week. On our first night in LA we were invited to some sort of celebrity auction organised by Mercedes (by which I mean the celebrities bid for the car, rather than us bidding for the celebs), a star-studded affair that offered glimpses of chat-show host Jay Leno, diminutive singer Paula Abdul, and tennis ace John McEnroe. As the former superbrat rushed past us to his car, one of my team turned to me and said, with all the conviction of the truly jetlagged, 'Don't look now, but I think that's Jimmy Connors.' However, this remark paled into insignificance a few days later when an otherwise lucid and tack- sharp PR was giving me her opinion of Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. When we were interrupted by her client, she whispered under her breath, 'Don't worry. I won't tell you how it ends.' Only in LA.

Dylan Jones is the editor of GQ magazine

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