The velvet ropes of The Ivy, an iconic West End celebrity hotspot weren’t made for wildlife — but tonight, they’d meet their match.

As the pack stepped through the understated entrance on West Street, the maître d’ straightened his tie like he was holding back a storm.

Gabriel led the charge — barepaw, black tee, a touch of espresso on his breath — with Mark, Thane, Cassie, Maya, Jonah, Rico, and Emily trailing behind. They were greeted with polite gasps, murmurs, and the flicker of phone screens.

The reserved table was nestled in a cocoon of warm lights, dark wood, and leather banquettes. A white tablecloth, perfectly starched, awaited the band’s imminent chaos.

Thane gave a nod. “Order whatever you like. Fancy, local, outrageous — this is your night.”

The staff — clearly fangirling — flocked. One junior maître d’ nearly dropped a bread basket and had to be reassured his hands were ‘still trembling from the excitement.’ Another offered to pull back Gabriel’s chair with a flourish usually reserved for visiting royalty.

The menu arrived: beef Wellington, caviar deviled eggs, lobster Thermidor, seasonal tasting menus. Gabriel nearly opened his mouth to howl.

Dinner began in a clink of crystal stemware. Yet even the Ritz’s finest faltered beside passages of steak-scented fog magic.

Conversation flowed — Are we really here? Do they know we exist? — until midway through the first course, Gabriel stood on his chair and raised his glass.

“TO LONDON! To a sold-out arena, sold-out hearts, and sold-out… pants!” He winked. He was already pantless.

Mark groaned, reaching for the bread basket to cover him discreetly. Cassandra stifled a laugh behind a napkin.

The rest of dinner was… chaotic elegance.

  • Jonah signed a napkin with his drumstick.
  • Rico explained bass harmonics to a table of starstruck accountants.
  • Maya accidentally ordered two caviar dishes.
  • Cassie serenaded the staff with a soft chorus while they cleared plates.
  • Emily live-streamed under the table, narrating “Gabriel just dunked a lemon in champagne.”

Thane watched from the head of the table, quietly absorbing the delicate pandemonium. He tapped his glass. The room hushed — for a moment.

“We love this town,” he said softly. “Thank you, London, for hearing the howl. And thank you to the staff who made us feel like family.”

The staff erupted, applauding. The maître d’ even cracked a relieved smile.

Just when things seemed about to calm, Gabriel launched a round of dessert — crêpe suzette trolley theatrics — and stole the flame like a scene from Crank That Basil. The trolley caught fire, flames flickered, laughter roared, and two staff members scrambled in perfect harmony trained only on gentle panic.

Thane leapt up mid-flame. “It’s under control!” he assured.

In the elimination of that tiny fire, the evening cemented itself into history. Phones captured the drama. Fans gasped in relief. Wine glasses refilled themselves like magic.

Final course done, bills paid (by Thane), and tips tossed in a thunderous round of applause, the pack made their way out — Gabriel caught on camera kissing the crêpe cart, Mark tiptoeing around flickering toast crumbs, and Rico offering to autograph coasters.

The velvet rope closed behind them, taking the echoes of laughter and eternal chaos with it.

Outside, the streetlights shone over black-tie onlookers and weekenders. As the limo pulled away, Gabriel leaned out the window.

“Next stop: Manchester. Same madness?”

The limo driver, exhausted, didn’t answer.

Thane just smiled. “You bet.”