It’s a cutthroat game, spring racing.
No, I don’t mean trying to pick a winner. Or the horses running. (Wait, there are horses?) I’m talking about the marquees – and, more specifically, the guest lists waiting at the door.
You might think that they’re just innocent pieces of paper clipped to a clipboard, but NOPE. I have news for you: they tell you exactly how #important you are.
Just ask the PRs that put those shiny lists together. With their shiny pens.
Addressed to shiny people (and Big Brother stars) (and Bachelor whatevers). All this shiny flurry is for the exclusive marquees where even a AAA won't help you get in.
And the Emirates Marquee? Well that's the shiniest marquee of them all.
Now, don’t even think of googling “Emirates Marquee contact email” in the hope of blagging your way in. That would just be super awks.
But perhaps there’s something even more awks.
Perhaps even worse than a blogger that blags her way in, is a blogger who blags her way in, then shares 50 instas, 12 snapchats, 632 tweets and a letter to her grandma in Texas with detailed blueprints of the layout and menu handwritten on a marginally soiled Emirates napkin… as if, all along, her invite was sitting on the fridge from being invited MONTHS AGO.
But if, as they say, the Emirates marquee is harder to get into than a Swiss Bank vault wrapped in whatever that plastic is that they package cheese in, then perhaps that's not the worst thing at all… perhaps it is, in fact, FREAKING BRILLIANT.
After all, isn’t that what us bloggers are, in the end? Really fucking good at blagging stuff?
Being gifted something that we really want right now but totally don’t want to pay for? Snapping solo flatlays left handed in terribly-lit corners while drinking free champers like a fugitive? Proffering a gift bag (and maybe a spare for Aunt May) on the way out, werking our loaned outfit like a kween?
Our life is like the damn fashion Olympics. And this spring racing season, blagging our way into the Emirates marquee is like taking gold in the decathalon.
So I say: don’t cringe for us, PRs! Stand, and (slow) clap! OUR WHOLE LIVES HAVE LED TO THIS ONE MOMENT, YOU ONLY GET ONE SHOT, MOM'S SPAGHETTI, ETC!
You go, Glen Coco. You blag your way in.
I’ll be toasting to you from the outside, where I belong.
You can follow Bianca’s spring racing journey walking loops around the marquees that she’s not allowed into over at @alphabetponymag