The last time I was on Park Lane was in 2019 to attend the Amy Winehouse Foundation Ball, and it was really wonderful. The Foundation does amazing work supporting vulnerable young people who may be suffering from the effects of drug and alcohol misuse. There were some very moving speakers that night, and lots of money was raised.
For as long as I’ve lived in London (since 1991), Park Lane hasn’t really changed. It’s had the same line of five-star hotels (in some cases with slightly changed names), which, in addition to being expensive places to stay, host charity balls, industry awards, fashion galas and fancy dinners in their enormous ballrooms.
This regal road bordering Mayfair connects Marble Arch to Hyde Park Corner along the eastern edge of Hyde Park, and features vast showrooms full of flashy cars like Rolls Royces and Aston Martins. There is a reason for it being the second most expensive property on the Monopoly board.
During the 1990s, I went to a Park Lane hotel at least once a year, attending one or another of the legendary advertising industry award dos they hosted. These were lavish, glamorous affairs attended by the best in the biz, where everyone loved to dress to impress in fancy gowns and smart tuxedos.
By the middle of the decade, one of the biggest nights of the year was either the Campaign or the Marketing Week awards, the trade rags’ annual celebrations of successful campaigns and standout teams. Everyone who was anyone went, and I, still at the start of my career with a London ad agency, I was dying to be one of them. At first, I was too junior to be invited. But I went anyway.
It was surprisingly easy to gain entry in those days, before the internet ruined everything paper-related. Tickets were like gold dust, but I developed my own system for getting in without one.
First, I’d put on my best dress and heels as if I had been invited. I would arrive alone – attempting this with other people would have definitely failed – and made sure I was late, turning up after the reception drinks, when people were being seated for dinner.
The rest came down to every small woman’s greatest weapon: the mouth. My brass-necked chat would begin at the door, accompanied by some fake rummaging at the bottom of my bag: “I can’t find my ticket. Do you mind if I just go inside and search for it?”
Who’s going to leave a woman who clearly belongs inside standing on the street? Once in, I’d head to the table where the name badges were lined up for collection, keep up the rummaging act for long enough to scan – not easy, upside down – the ones that hadn’t been claimed. I’d pick a name that felt like it could be mine. Could I be an Alice? Absolutely.
“Hi, I’m Alice Wainwright. I can’t find my ticket, but they said my badge should be here.”
“Let me have a look… Alice, Alice, Alice… Oh! Here we are! There you go.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a great night.”
The doormen had let me in, so the badge attendant had assumed I was legit. No ID checks back then, so I was free to head straight to the loos, toss Alice’s tag in the bin and take full advantage of the free stuff beside the sinks.
Plenty of spray ensured my backcombed hair was as solid as stone, and after testing all the perfumes, I gave myself a few heavy squirts and left 50p for the nice toilet attendant. In the corridor, I casually lifted a glass of champers from a passing tray on my way into the ballroom, trying to give off an I belong here, don’t look at me aura.
Now, where to sit? I didn’t dare choose Alice’s table in case she turned up. Instead, I hovered, watching for empty seats. My eyes locked on one at the TBWA table that had been vacant for 20 minutes, next to the easily recognisable, curly-haired Trevor Beattie. I decided to try that one for size, riding on the thrill that I still could be kicked out at any moment.
“Trevor! How are you! Mind if I join you guys?”
“Absolutely, join us! What’s your name again?”
I sat on the edge of the chair at first, as if stopping by for a quick chat, just in case someone came over. I told Trevor I’d interviewed with him a while back when I’d been thinking of going to TBWA, but had gone to Saatchi instead. That was true, and it didn’t matter that he remembered me only very vaguely. No one cared. Glasses got topped up, and I slowly edged backwards into comfort.
After a lovely three-course meal (the most I had eaten since my mum’s at Christmas) I ended up in some of the TBWA table photos, which are probably now sitting in a Kodak envelope in someone’s loft to be occasionally dragged out and prompt the question: “Who was she, again?”
I returned to Park Lane on Thursday night for the Music Week awards, with an invitation. It was a warm celebration of talent across labels, publishing, live, A&R, radio, marketing, and PR. Alex Turner of Arctic Monkeys presented the final award of the night to Ian McAndrew, the legendary music manager, who gave an excellent speech. I really enjoyed the food and had a wonderful evening with great friends and colleagues, sitting at Table 7, courtesy of the landlord of Camden’s Dublin Castle.
When I’d arrived, I’d thought about how hard it would be for a 22-year-old to blag their way into a place like this in 2025: tickets have to be scanned from a phone and there’s no way to get in without one; and for this event at least there was no check-in table with name tags.
But as I said my goodbyes and headed for the exit, I found out that there possibly is still a way a person could sneak into this part of the hotel if such person really wanted to, even if that person had a valid ticket, just to test it out. I love playing Monopoly. But nothing beats the thrill of Risk.
Julie Hamill writes novels, appears on Times Radio and does lots more. Follow her on Bluesky. Support OnLondon.co.uk and its writers for just £5 a month or £50 a year and get things for your money too. Details HERE.
Ah ha! I remember it well. The rest of the 1990s however, remain a hazy blur.