Much has been written about Jasper Conran’s five-star Villa Mabrouka since it opened last June. The boutique hotel in Tangier, Morocco has a “huge, ravishing garden”; an “unbelievably gorgeous pool”. It is the “tender, meticulous and magical resurrection” of a property that was once home to Yves Saint Laurent. To get to the heart of the matter, though, is to avoid such lyrical whimsies. The magic behind Villa Mabrouka is more straightforward. “It’s like a summit of all the powerful gays in fashion and media in the world,” one colleague summarised. And this, dear reader, makes it a very important place indeed.
Villa Mabrouka may call itself a hotel, but it’s really more of a club. Impossibly chic, inscrutable, as if it were members-only. As with most properties that come into homosexual hands, it’s not enough to appear exclusive simply at the point of entry. These aren’t properties that are restricted to the super rich; instead, they operate a more cultural sort of elitism. ‘No riff raff’ here means something quite different to ‘no riff raff’ at a Bulgari or Four Seasons hotel. It means they won’t let in anyone who doesn’t know who Wolfgang Tillmans is.
To a degree, gay culture has always been elitist. Wit and erudition have always been held in disproportionately high esteem, as have near-impossible beauty standards. Moreover, snobbery will appear within any culture that has become dominant: where there is structure, there are echelons. Today, gay culture is no longer on the fringes: it’s slap bang in the middle of things. From technology and politics – Tim Cook, Sam Altman, Wes Streeting – to media and the arts – Elton John, Andy Cohen, Alan Hollinghurst and the younger crop: Jeremy O’Harris, Ncuti Gatwa, Troye Sivan – gay men are running the show. And those beneath them, whether gay or not, seek to ape their glamorous ways.
The gay club may once have been a refuge. Today, it’s a status symbol. The underground basement of yesteryear is now a boutique hotel in North Africa with sweeping views across the Mediterranean. Gaining entry, much like that to a private members club, requires nomination, secondment, and a charge. You can buy your way in, of course, but that alone won’t get you to the top. Scaling the Gaytriarchy is less a matter of money and more a matter of time. By the time your ascension is complete, the world will be your oyster – and you will never have to do such pedestrian things as book a flight or stand in a queue ever again.
The first thing to do is meet all the gays who matter a little, in order to meet those who matter a lot. Naming names now would be terribly gauche, so I’ll keep it simple: look for anyone with more than 30,000 Instagram followers and whose bio includes the words “style director”, and work your way up from there. A key stepping stone will be the pundits: editors, broadcasters and celebrity barnacles – people who've made a career off of gossip and/or starfucking. Once you're in with them, it's only a matter of time before you're in with everyone. You could befriend Derek Blasberg when he's next in town, for instance – head to White Cube, or wherever Burberry are holding their next fashion show – and be at Gwyneth Paltrow's house in the Hamptons before you know it. Just make sure you don't shit the bed like he did.
Blasberg, of course, is almost a Gaytriarch in his own right. Best way to end up in his good books is by cozying up to one of the Delevingne sisters, Queer Bible creator Jack Guinness or one of Jude Law's children. Finding them is easy: these people broadcast their lives for a living. If you missed them at last week's Frieze parties, head to Chiltern Firehouse, 5 Hertford Street or the newly opened Soho Mews House in Mayfair; Estelle Manor in the Cotswolds; ticketed events at Ladbroke Hall, the House of Koko or Kensington Roof Gardens.
Gaining entry to the Gaytriarchy, much like that to a private members club, requires nomination, secondment, and a charge.
You know you've graduated from hanger-on to the real thing when you get invited to dinner at a private home. No hanger-on lives anywhere plush enough to actually host: they'll have you think they live in Hampstead when they're actually in Kilburn. It is imperative that dinner at the Gaytriarch's house goes well. Other Gaytriarchs will be present too: and if they like you, they'll invite you to whatever they're doing next. Snowball effect, "your whole future happiness depends on how you behave on this one social occasion", etc. Full disclosure: this writer has ended up at such a dinner on more than one occasion. So, allow me to run you through proceedings.
Welcome to the Gaytriarchy! Delighted to have you. Giorgio, our cherubic valet will take your coat. It’s from Carhart? How sweet. Please head upstairs and make yourself comfortable. We’ve laid out a freshly ironed Gucci suit on your bed. Pop that on and meet us downstairs for Martinis in half an hour.
Please note Henry, our host, is not drinking this evening – so I’d advise you do so gently. Why isn’t he drinking? Bad for the waistline, darling. You can’t expect anyone to look that good at 72 without making some kind of sacrifice. Especially when they spent years coked up to their ears at Studio 54.
Did I ever tell you about Henry and Tom Ford? Oh, I’ll tell you over dinner: it’s de-li-cious! But wait: before you dive in headfirst, remind me who you are, so I can brief Henry when he comes down.
Do you have a career in the arts? Great. What do you do exactly? A writer? Hmmm. Can I just tell Henry you're an interior designer? If he asks, I'll say you post aesthetically pleasing pictures of vintage furniture and Parisian apartments decorated by Robert Kime to your Instagram account and call it a job.
Do you have a degree in History of Art or something similarly unexerting? From Cambridge or the Courtauld? If yes, wonderful. If not, we'll tell him that's what you did anyway. No one needs to know you went to Condé Nast College of Fashion and Design for two terms before dropping out.
Are you familiar with, and comfortable discussing, any and all of the following: Alessandro Michele’s new collection for Valentino; what really went down at the Ambani wedding; Guillaume Diop from the Paris ballet; Karla Otto’s new house; Rupert Everett’s new book; Rupert Everett’s comments about the British Empire; whatever’s on at La Scala this season; Hamish Bowles’ stroke; Luca Guadagnino’s new hotel? (Please note the host and his friends aren’t interested in Guadagnino’s new film, except when it comes to discussing Daniel Craig’s new look or how beautiful Drew Starkey is.)
No one needs to know you went to Condé Nast College of Fashion and Design for two terms before dropping out.
Wonderful, that’s all from me. Obviously, speak only when spoken to, flirt with everyone and chew with your mouth closed. You may run your finger through the leftover sauce on your plate once you’re done, so long as you do so in a sensual manner that will have everyone quietly entranced before you bring it to your mouth for consumption. Brush up on your knowledge of Caravaggio and Jacques Grange – these are some high-end gays – and remember the only sports you can ever admit to playing are tennis and padel. Do not bring up holidays. Not chic. If you do all this correctly, you’ll be a huge success. Villa Mabrouka won't be far off. And with that, world domination.
