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Ms Ritz-Carlton

Claudia is a bonafide COVIDillionaire. Her usually desolate savings basin is now flush with the glorious rains of JobKeeper, early superannuation and her birthday bounty. 

While there is a voice in her head telling her to save some of the money, there is a louder voice saying, “eh, there’s always OnlyFans”. Move over Kylie Jenner, Claudia is coming for the throne.

Now, one does not simply have $22k in the bank and celebrate their birthday in an ordinary fashion. Claudia has ordered her long-suffering “king” to pay $900 to secure a basic room at the Ritz-Carlton.

She then makes it very clear what is expected of him. Decorations, dinner reservation and a bottle of Moet – the gold standard of champagne for people who don’t know about champagne Who needs savings when you have heavily choreographed romance?

Upon arrival, Claudia gets her king to film her walking into the room and pretending to be surprised by the all the pre-planted affection around the joint. They proceed to spend the next 2 hours taking photos with her new YSL bag and the river in the background. Her king will be paying that off for months to come #baller.

It’s still a few hours until her besties arrive for drinks, so she uses her limited time wisely by uploading photos and writing captions talking about how good it is at the top and being a “boss”. She IS a self-proclaimed public figure after all.

Her besties arrive and after several gut-wrenching minutes of squealing and fake-compliments, they embark on another 3 hours of photos in the bathroom. Claudia’s king sits in the corner working hard on his happy birthday post to his queen. He knows failure isn’t an option.

Claudia films every moment of their journey to the bar to get some cocktails in. Within half an hour they girls are really putting the woo in the woo-uld you tell these rent-a-plebs to shut their yasss-holes. 

By 9 pm, Claudia is messier than Clive’s rag on a stick after a particularly big night on the curry. Her chances of being permitted into a licensed venue are pretty much nil so they decide to take the party back to the hotel room for some crying, vomiting and Snapchatting – the holy trinity of #blessed.

The next day, their room smells like the Clubba toilets and Claudia can’t get out of bed. She has to cancel the plans she made her king organise for their second day.

What’s the point of spending a stack on a hotel if you can’t lay hungover in bed for an entire day while mindlessly scrolling Instagram? Not like you could’ve done that at home. Then again, what’s money when you’ve made a shit-omelette out of your nest egg? Slay queen.