Moonlight entertainment…with Jeffrey Epstein
- GG Elliott
- Jan 21, 2020
- 9 min read
Updated: Jan 30, 2020
In the summer of 2013, when the No Bull Art was merely a hapless gamete floating listlessly within the diseased testicle of Jambo Tone’s consciousness, I was supporting my meagre income as a penurious cub reporter by working for a high-class catering service. This is the story of a night working one of Jeffrey Epstein’s London parties, a night when the world of billion-dollar finance met the bargain basement of UK British boxing.
The sun set lazily over fashionable Knightsbridge, which despite its propinquity to the distemper of Belgravia, seemed many iterations removed from the inner city it calls home. The roar of London distant and barely audible within the topiarised garden of billionaire financier, Jeffrey Epstein, and not at all discernible within the lawn marquee which was to be my place of work for the evening. The bar was open; the guest list strictly closed, and pouring drinks whilst maintaining a non-judgemental, discretionary façade, my only responsibility.
A little of the particulars: this was a party the invite themed as The Final Days of Rome. Bored with the tepid criminality of sex trafficking, paedophilia, sexual assault, conspiracy, stock manipulation, Ponzi fraud, shorting and insider dealing, Jeffrey had become preoccupied to the point of obsession with truly muddying his hands, and debasing his character beyond any promise of recovery, by investing in the openly depraved industry of professional boxing. This party intended to bring the powerful and vested to one location, for one night, to broker deals and massage relationships, and to ultimately further line the collective pockets of the avaricious.
The marquee itself was vast and ornate. Colourful silken textiles draped from the ceiling in earthly hues intended to reminisce of deserts and conquered foreign lands. Gilded sconces, in the shape of candelabras hung from each wall and provided the only muted, flickering light. Deep coconut shell bowls lined with gold leaf and brimming with water displayed illegally imported, protected, priceless and recherche Kadupul flowers, known by locals as ‘the Kell Brook flower’, which directly translates from their Sinhalese dialect to mean the ‘Queen of the Night’. At the entranceway stood two shirtless pubescents in centurion dress. Their helmets plumed red, their sandals leather and fawn tan, their names: Charlie and Sunny Edwards.
The invitation instructed guests to arrive for 8.00pm. Entertainment would then follow from 9pm...into the evening. But by 5, I was already pouring my 4th half-pint for embittered Geordie, Glenn McCrory. Nothing off about this; restrained, you may think, but these were half pints of Irish Whiskey chased down with triple shots of methanol, a heady combination he chortlingly referred to with Pooterish regularity as the ‘McCrory molestation’.
By 8.30, the marquee was teeming with guests. I’d served a ‘couple of pints of the Forsthye Saga’ to vocal contortionist Barry Hearn, ‘anything but the black stuff’ to champion racist Josh Taylor and an off-the-menu cocktail to Dillian Whyte, who, after having prepared it to his fastidious instruction, informed me that he called it Dirty Dianabol…’guaranteed to get you through 12 with Robert Helenius’.
The entertainment – which until this point has included a chorus of lyre playing, mock gladiatorial combat and Epstein offering a 14-year-old Anna Woolhouse a ride around the garden in his chariot – had been met with absentminded indifference by the majority, who were instead ensconced in ambient conversation.
To scan the bar to my right was to see Kugan Cassius in conversation with, the then, First Class Boxing’s Andy IFL Andy. To overhear them was to hear the latter advising Kugan that to ‘grow on social, you really need to up your popularity and presence’ and to do that ‘you need to buy spurious ‘bot’ followers from untraceable eastern locations.’ If quick cash was a problem, it could always be raised, he expounded, ‘by persuading impressionable Canadians to purchase hoodies that you have no intention of ever actually sending them.’
To look to my left was to see contentious entertainer Jimmy Saville locked in conversation with Dave Allen. Dave was visibly upset and heaving sobs in between staccato laments and expressionless sips on his ‘Irn Bru on the rocks’. ‘I just want to sell out the Doncaster Dome,’ he implored with the vacant regularity of a traumatised veteran. ‘Don’t worry, lad,’ the tracksuited roue assured. 'Jim’ll fix it.’ And with that, the ageing spinner placed a besoverigned hand on his fellow Yorkshireman’s shoulder. ‘You just remember to bring young Danny up for some closed sparring in the week. Your Uncle Jim’ll get him sweating. I’ll sure penetrate his guard. Yalright.’
Directly before me was the sight of Kalle ‘my sanguine complexion, incessant sweat and paranoid demeanour hint at an underlying thyroid condition’ Sauerland locked in conversation with goateed rocker and pacific region travel enthusiast, Gary Glitter. ‘I’ve been scouting talent all-over South-East Asia,’ Glitter explained. ‘There’s a young lad down there, Nonito Donaire, who carries knockout power in each hand…and I’m talking concussive power, your kind. Not the sort to knock out semen from an ageing popstar’s grey microphone…sadly.’ With that, his lachyromse gaze darted to the floor.
Looking at this scene now, I concede that their brazen openness was shocking, but it must be contextualised with the information that the promising liberality of New Labour still bewitched us all. Blairism was the hangover which afforded these monsters the flexibility to readily hide in plain sight.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Epstein would like you all to join him in the garden for the finale of tonight’s entertainment,’ a chair-standing factotum broadly announced to all those gathered. It must have been 10.30pm and we all filed out to enjoy this final surprise. A popup stage had been erected. Mr Epstein took to the microphone, thanked everyone for coming, hospitably encouraged them to stay as long as they wished, and then introduced his congenial associate ‘Mr Ian Watkins!’ to the stage. A four-song acoustic set which ended on For He’s A Jolly Good Felon roused the crowd in heady expectation. ‘Let the real entertainment begin,’ Watkins cryptically beseeched before he slithered from the stage.
The bar was commissioned to remain open indefinitely. E. L. James and Adam Smith saw in midnight with an almighty row, Smith taking exception to the fact that his private life had been so inaccurately represented in James’ novels. ‘I had to adapt it for a heterosexual, teleiophilic audience,’ she had cried before fleeing the marquee in tears. McCrory was still drinking, heavily, and had by now taken to barking unusual claims in between snoring, hunching over and drooling upon his bar stool. These claims included the suggestion that Arsenal should forever be called ‘Bumnal’, in order to reduce the inherent offence of their name, that he had had his gag reflex surgically removed, that he only uses prescription condoms, and that he is the sole absentee progenitor of the mile high creature, Dean Whyte.
Sensing my fatigue and with things concurrently quietening, our Site Manager allowed me a protracted break. ‘Go and stretch your legs for an hour or so,’ he urged. ‘Check out the main house. It seems as though most of the guests have retired there.’ Trepidatious and naïve, and still in full serving uniform, I approached the main four-story property. On entering, I was handed a glass of champagne by the still shirtless Sunny Edwards. Charlie stood next to him, distracted in resisting Adam Smith’s exhortatory pleading to apply baby oil to his ‘developed’ torso. ‘Please leave your phone here and sign this form,’ Sunny requested, handing me a-legally-impervious-non-disclosure-agreement; upon, which read, ‘Feel free to visit any room on the bottom two floors, but you are never permitted to retell the actions you observe occurring beyond these walls.
Further perturbed, but growingly curious, I downed the champagne, took another and headed for the stairs. There were four rooms which comprised this first-floor corridor, each with their doors closed intriguingly. Maybe behind these is where the real business was being attended to, I mused. Maybe the powerful are hunkered down and brokering their deals. Emboldened by the glass of 1841 Veuve Clicquot, I grasped at the handle of door number one and eased it ajar. It was at that moment that things then became irredeemably grotesque.
‘Woof, woof, woof!’ I leapt back, startled. Two Pantagruelian hounds came pattering towards me, teeth bore and eyes sclerotic. In the dim light, their collective visage lent to Baskervillian menace. It was only when my own eyes panickedly adjusted could I make out Matchroom’s Eddie Hearn at the reigns of a black leather double dog leash. And that the two canines upon the end of this leash were not in fact canis lupus familiaris at all, but human. In a shiny PVC leotard crawled, quadrupedally, Kugan Cassius. His face completely concealed behind a black neoprene dog mask, but his recognisable faux-chummy demeanour suffocating and inescapable. ‘Sit!’ Hearn ordered, attempting to temper the unexpected excitement provoked by my entry in the room. Neither growler obeyed, so Eddie doubled-down with the enticement, ‘Koogi, treat!’, and with that, Kugan turned and obediently pawned at his master's leg, Hearn now dispensing amorphous treats from penny bags labelled RAW and BEEF. The other dog remained braced and eyeing me menacingly. His human features obscured beneath a full Pug zentai suit. As I backed tight to the door, arms espaliered, I reached around to the small of my back, turned the handle and without averting my gaze from the Pug man hybrid, exited abruptly. It was only on closing the door, did I hear Hearn express the complimentary praise, ‘Good boy, Bomber, well done.'
Disconcerted and unrelieved, I longed for salvation, for any means of escape. The adjacent door was labelled ‘CBT’. ‘Excellent,’ I thought. A course of cognitive behavioural therapy to ease the trauma of door number 1 would be exactly what any benevolent allopathic doctor would order. I open this door with callow confidence and renewed vigour. What greeted me was a sight as monstrous as it was depraved. Only in hindsight, I am now aware that the abbreviation CBT expanded in this context to mean ‘Cock and Ball Torture’. Before me stood a naked Frank Maloney, but for a shoulder-length blonde wig, his plump testicles resting within the jaws of a heavy-duty bench vice. With each turn of the handle, his eyes further reddened and began to tear. ‘They just cause me so much grief,’ he muttered, ‘but I can’t physically make the final turns to crush them. Please will you do it?’ Again, I leapt back, thrust open the door and contorted myself out as expediently as possible. Slamming it shut on exit, I collapsed and rested with my back pressed firmly against it, fearful that Maloney would continue to pursue me with blubberingly importunes to assist in the hastening of his backstreet castration. Conrad’s Kurtz knew nothing of horror.
Two doors remained, but I had neither the constitution nor the requisite artificial courage to enter. Mercifully, my hour’s break was nearly at an end and so I thankfully made a hurried beat back to the marquee, halted only by Barry Hearn, who drunkenly emerged from a broom cupboard, trouserless and holding a four pack of Stella Artois. His oversized white boxer shorts noticeable not only due to their coruscating knee-length brilliance, but for their deliberate personalisation with bespoke motifs, numerous images of himself crouched and smiling behind dissimilar trout. ‘The boat leaves at dawn,’ he confusingly muttered, as Tyson Fury helped him back to the cupboard. ‘I know it does, grandad,’ Tyson reassuringly replied. ‘You just wait for it in here.’ And with that he sat him down betwixt Henry the Hoover and a tower of rubber gloves addressed to Max Clifford.
By now it was 3am and the party was in full bacchanalia. This proved too much for some and at the entrance to the marquee, Adam Smith sat crying. ‘Fritzl was just misunderstood,’ he wept into the open arms of Matt Macklin. ‘Josef was a great man. His cellar was truly inspiring and his family reluctant but warm.’ Carl Froch was pointing an aggressive finger into the face of Prince Naseem Hamed, breaking only to jeer, ‘If the earth isn’t flat, then how come I am able to do this!’ before removing his shirt, placing it on the ground and beginning to iron it.
I couldn’t face one more minute serving these philistinic ingrates and so headed to the exit to await a taxi. Passing the kennels along a walkway lined either side by a phalanx of lusty and unsuspecting yew trees, I observed a fraught Joe Gallagher liberally applying Pedigree Chum to the same appendage that he was coaxing with the supportive refrain, 'Who's the biggest boy in the yard, you are.' 'It's the only way they'll eat it,' he said forlornly, catching my unintended gaze and speaking with the insouciance one discusses encouraging a toddler to eat peas. Staggering into the road and keen to put as much distance between myself and this villainous perversion as possible, I tried halting any passing car.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you a lift,’ said an unassuming man to my right dressed in a white dinner jacket. That man turned out to be no other than aspirant racing driver Errol Spence Jr. Errol nearly cooked himself getting us home that night, but that’s a rude tale for another time…
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