Last weekend I attended a friend’s birthday dinner at the elegant Beaufort House, one of the many members-only social clubs that are spread throughout Central and West London. Overlooking the King’s Road, in the heart of Chelsea, the club is known for its champagne bar (where we happened to be ensconced) and its “Harry Hunters”. You see, I have it on very good authority (yup, it’s a solid gold rumour) that Harry dines/drinks/hangs-out at Beaufort House a couple of times a week and, therefore, the establishment has become one of the favourite hunting grounds for the army of young ladies that are trying to bag William’s very eligible, next in line to the throne, younger sibling.
The phenomenon of prowling for princes is nothing new. Splashed across the pages of HELLO! magazine for most of their lives, the royal brothers have been no less the objects of teenage and twenty-something’s desires than Brad Pitt, Robert Pattinson and Justin Bieber. The big difference is that unlike most Hollywood teen idols, Harry (and, until recently, William) can often be found rubbing elbows at a few of West London’s select clubs. And, every single girl (and single girl’s mother) knows, where there is access, there is possibility.
With the recent engagement of William and Kate, this sense of possibility has exploded the practice of Harry hunting into a full-blown cultural phenomenon. Yes, the odds have been split in half, but the fact that William has chosen the daughter of a (swallow dryly here) “commoner” as his wife, has proven that young Duchesses, Ladies and other minor royals no longer have the inside track on Harry.
Pegged as the “bad boy” of the royal pair (perhaps, it was the Nazi costume that did it?), Harry has become a bonafide international (and by that, I mean Knightsbridge, Chelsea and Kensington) sex symbol. Like Hemingway’s hunt for the white rhino, Harry has become the most sought after trophy for young ladies on the prowl. If he’s not at Beaufort House, he must be at Boujis, or Public or Mahiki.
Of course, I’m already married to a (swallow dryly here) commoner, but this doesn’t stop me from taking a post dinner wander through Beaufort House, just in case. I scour every floor and even check with the smokers outside but there’s no sign of the eligible ginger prince. Better head to Bouji.