Saturday 17^th July 2010

Cascades of champagne, staff, canapés surging every 30 seconds. Good Lord, readers, I expect you’re thinking: ‘Not again.’

There is a sameness to Poor Little Rich Gay life, it is true. But we have struggled so hard to lash our bark in the howling storm to those bollard things on the quay.

Lord Arrowby’s parties are certainly well out of recession, the student-style brie-and-baguette table now a tiny speck on the horizon.

But His Lordship, as we know, Mr Darcy-ish, some kind of power-behind-the-throne in power’s highest corridors (although these could be, now I think of it, the bedroom corridors), but nevertheless highly bizarre and supremely Poor Little Rich Gay, as well as my part-time love interest, when I remember, is not given to extravagance. Although we must remember that unextravagance is costly. You have to be at a certain level before you can afford to avoid it. But he has, like Ralph Kitto, put a great deal into his art collection.

He was a sublime honey-gold hue for his party which he insisted was natural, his blue eyes never bluer or more bewitching.

I think I won’t carry on like this. It’ll go to his head

So:

The guests:

World-famous Poor Little Rich Gays, but Reggie Cresswell, the Ghanaian ceramicist, unable to attend owing to the latest monumental ceramic still being in and out the kiln

Boxers, kick and normal

DJs

Dancers who used to run frock shops

Frock shoppists who used to be dancers

Daphne Flowerbender, who has a butler and smokes through the courses

Bond Street Gallerists

Building Society Managers

Mobile Phone Shop workers

Male models

Literary agents

Members of the cycling club

People with children

Afghan community workers

Vicars

The Conversation:

Harry Rollo, the impresario and performance artist: ‘I do resent sleeping. It means I’m not getting on with anything.’

Rufus Pitman, novelist and critic: ‘New direction in perfume: “Sycamore” by Chanel, only available from Selfridges, £190 a bottle.’

Lollo Gesù to his friend, Cesár Salas: ‘What’s all this?’ – pulling on loose fabric around crotch of Cèsar’s trousers – ‘There’s nothing there.’ ‘What do you suggest?’ says Cèsar. ‘A sock!’ says Lollo. Cesár much charming. In fact we’re already friends on Facebook where you can see him in underwear and silver straps.

Relationships a big theme:  Gay divorce – expense of. Relationships, long term but seasonal, problems of.  Then, Guy Bostock, who had his ex-boyfriend moved back in, owing to homelessness it turns out, and living at the other end of his flat. That was last year. Now Guy has got even bigger pecs, borne with  irony, and has met a big muscular go-cart racer who is being impossible. It really is too much. We were all furious on his behalf but he was superbly prancing and glancing in the Poor Little Rich Gay manner about it all.

The Frockage:

Lord Arrowby was in a white-and-blue flowered lawn shirt and the new mid-calf length summer slacks – this was weeks of planning, as we know.

Two people were showing the new oatmeal canvas lace-ups with sateen toe-caps, Lord Arrowby one of them.

The ivory and white summer look, classic, was excellently displayed, especially by Cesàr Salas whose silhouette was fantastic – coat-hanger shoulders, tiny waist.

By the way, someone apparently connected with fashion was asked what trousers are doing: ‘Don’t worry. Wear what you like,’ this person said.

Well, that’s wrong. We want to wear what’s new, however unsuitable. Frockage is the fight against death.

So wear all of the above, dear readers, even if it kills you.

Finally:

I said to Lord Arrowby: ‘Let’s marry soon.’

‘Oh, that again.’

‘Well, how about a mini-break?’

‘All right. But I insist on separate bathrooms.’