SMALL PRINT:MOST AWARDS CEREMONIES are self-congratulatory, sycophantic, boring affairs. In 2010, some friends and I, in trying to come up with a way of getting people to go out on Holy Thursday, and in particular to a club we were running, decided that the format was ripe for parody.
The South William Street VVIP Awards were born.
Good jokes work only when they’re taken seriously. The VVIP Academy members (there are six of us) have backgrounds in event management and are also pretty adept at bringing ridiculous ideas to life.
Year one, in a crowded room upstairs in Spy, we awarded prizes in the categories of “best haircut”, “most dubious club-night name”, “ride of the year” and more. A “those who are sadly no longer with us” montage showed friends who had emigrated and places that had closed.
The awards ceremony was a product of a Z-list celebrity culture that was eating itself, the recession, and an ability to take a joke and run with it. Hilariously, someone from EastEnders turned up, misinformed that it was a serious award ceremony.
The following year, with two of the organisers Anthony Mooney and Brian Spollen now running Andrews Lane Theatre, we held a sit-down affair, which saw presenter Buzz O’Neill enter the room on a motorbike to the strains of I Drove All Night, and an interpretive dance interval titled Black Eyed Swan. The tables were covered with fake money; an ice sculpture of David Guetta glistened on the bar. The category for best venue not in receivership, examinership or liquidation was crowded. Sinéad Burke, who stands at three feet five inches (and went on to win Alternative Miss Ireland this year) dressed as Lady Gaga and opened the doors of dispatched SUVs. Models termed “Ornaments” greeted patrons.
Then this year, something happened. Tabloids rang to see if we would leak the winner of "ride of the year". TV3's Xposé wanted to film interviews. Entertainment.iesent a camera crew. A TV production crew was shooting a "behind-the-scenes" documentary. Our guestlist grew: Bressie, Rosanna Davison, Glenda Gilson, Pippa O'Connor-Ormonde, Liam Cunningham, half of the cast of Fade Street, Melanie Morris, Ray Foley (who wasn't invited, but turned up anyway), Lisa Cannon.
We realised we actually had a guest list to rival a real awards ceremony, full of people whom the Irish celebrity media deem to be “names”. Newspapers and photo agencies were sending photographers. Twitter was clogged with the VVIPS12 hashtag. PR companies were ringing to reserve tables. Brands were offering free products for goodie bags, which up until now had contained pregnancy tests and instant noodles. We had created a monster.
On the night, awards for “ligger of the year”, “party girl of the year”, and a restaurant category made up solely of Joe Macken’s enterprises were added. We talked pop band LMFAO’s dancers into performing an interpretive piece called LMFWarhorseOff, which featured them dancing in first World War costumes wearing horse heads.
What the VVIPs show is that if you take a joke far enough, you’ll get somewhere. In the same way the Razzies in LA have become a legitimate part of the film industry, or the music industry pays attention to Popjustice’s £20 Music Prize, the VVIPs flip celebrity media on its head.
At a meeting the following week, we discussed killing it. Two years ago we thought it would be hysterical if people on the Irish social circuit turned up. Now they were getting dressed to the nines and hopping into limos. Job done. But when you have a good gag, it’s hard to let go.
One of the suggestions that stuck with me at our debrief was this: a giant Mount Rushmore-style sand sculpture of the Xposé team. One more year is worth it for that alone. Roll on #VVIPS13.
