Featured in Issue 193, The Gold Standard Issue, accompanied art from David Zwirner Gallery exhibition David Zwirner: 30 Years, on newsstands now!

Your skin it glistens 

Your eyes they sparkle

The spirits golden

A Tequila Sunrise

An Amaro Afternoon

A Rum Farewell

As we rid the world of its fraud and vanity maybe all that glistens is gold. 

My prayer is that you can pull your head out of the sand, admit your mistakes and get the help you need. What sort of help? A Gold Rush [Bourbon, Lemon Juice and Honey] on the rocks. Repeat as necessary. A Golden Shiver [Gold Rum, Pineapple Juice, Salt and Lime]. Preferably on a deck with Marco, Annabella and Proteus the God of Rivers. Golden showers? As if.

Shirley Eaton might be the most renowned ‘Girl Painted Gold’, in the history of cinema. When Gert Fröbe, playing Auric Goldfinger orders her death, the assassins paint her to death. If you are planning on painting yourself Gold, please leave a small amount of skin uncovered, just in case. Although it was widely rumoured that Shirley actually died during filming due to the paint; she is, in fact, very much alive at 94. God bless, have one on us.

To put some distance between us, I was experiencing Techno Utopia in Berlin. Where? Berghain? Not important. Brat Star was spinning, so there was plenty of that Tech/Rap vibe, the Ibogaine was kicking in and I was pulling hard on a bottle of Champers when a quartet of Gold Painted People came into my sphere. Three women and a man on a leash. ‘He is our house slave’ they told me while killing the bubbly.

The slave got none, but appeared fine with it.The women were all from Osaka, but had relocated to Berlin after what they referred to as ‘The Incident’. Not being one to pry, I let it go, while also being consumed by curiosity. The Ibogaine was splitting my brain in two and I couldn’t decide which side was winning. We got another bottle of bubbles and since I now felt like I was self-immolating, a bag of ice. I drew heavily on the elixir and tried to figure out a way to adhere the ice to my face. The women’s eyes were now enormous, burning pits of fire-wolf-passion. We danced, I think, and drank, I’m sure. I badly needed a smoke.

I wedged my way out into the garden and was surprised to find the sun beating down. What to do? Back inside with my Golden Tickets or beat it before the whole day was wasted? Wasted. Hahaha. Next thing I knew, I was wishing Sven a good morning and walking back towards my hotel. Missed it completely. Bought a beer by the Brandenburg Gate and then headed north across the river. Bought a second or third beer and found myself at the Samurai Museum. It wasn’t quite open yet, but I could wait. Time was immaterial. Thought about you and that thing that you said and suddenly was consumed with the desire to return to Berghain and find out about ‘The Incident.’ Attempted to chart a route there, but the entrance to the Samurai Musem swung open and I immediately forgot about whatever I had been planning moments prior. Oh, the overload, how I wanted to wield a Katana, gripping the handle of that slender deadly blade and sending the Yamauba back to the afterlife. I still had a Golden Lager in my pocket and retreated to the men’s to quaff.

I was awoken by banging on the door. ‘Mein herr, es ist Zeit für Sie aufzuwachen.’ The sun was low in the sky, Golden Hour was fast approaching. I couldn’t remember where I was staying and stumbled into the Generator. They had a suite available; I was helped in and ordered up six beers and bottle of Goldschlager, two grapefruit, three packs of Nat Sherman Brown, a toothbrush nd a pair of pajama bottoms. There was a terrace where I drank and smoked off the Ibogaine, then slept for 14 hours, awakened again by a pounding on my door. A theme had finally emerged. I was obligated to pay for another night, but was driven back to the now remembered Hotel de Rome where I was reunited with my possessions. I drew a bath, ordered a masseuse, some oysters and champagne and prepared for a luxurious night alone. I was contemplating another dozen when there was a knock on my door. What now? It was the house slave, the gold paint had partially sweated off him. ‘The mistresses are in the lobby and they wish to see you.’ Rats. 

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