Sunday 26th September 2010

Yesterday was the birthday of Angus Willis, leading food writer, food stylist, food photographer and Poor Little Rich Gay.

I can’t remember where we are with the Ivy? I crave it for my birthday on Friday 1st October, this coming.

But how to get a table for six at such short notice? In one of the most booked restaurants in the world?

Robert Nevil  pulled strings, through his fan there of his History of the Pony Club, but his string only wrenched in the waiting list.

Or so it seemed – until this morning.

I thought: there are always more strings to pull and pull them I will. That’s the Poor Little Rich Gay way.  I called Conor Cadoux in Brussels where he is running the European Parliament possibly. Once he was weekly in the Ivy, regarded as a huge asset there, owing to his large bar bill and scandalous wit. But he said his efficacy has declined, he’s been too long away from London.

Gays run the Ivy, of course, as they do most things.

It helps.

There was nothing for it – and why not? Why not call them myself? It was loathsome Robin Smallmeal, head of landfill in this country or whatever, who advised me: ‘Always announce yourself when telephoning the Ivy before demanding.’ So I said, ‘This is Adrian Edge speaking. I’m coming in on Friday. We’ll be six.’

You know what they do? They Google you. There’s a pause on the line while they do it. Then they come back and say, ‘Are you an 18th Century landscape gardener?’

The thing is: It worked!

Yes, I’m known at the Ivy after all. On the list. Oh yes! ‘Only too happy to help, sir’. Reservations shifted round even to accommodate.

You too could be known at the Ivy in this manner. If you insist that you’re someone for long enough, then you will be!

The minute I’d hung up, you won’t believe it, but Robert Nevil was texting to say his string had come in too! So massive double victory for Poor Little Rich Gays at the Ivy.

But, awful thought, we’ve heard about it before….kind commentators have mentioned it only this week – upstairs at the Ivy, there’s the Ivy Club. It’s new-ish. Membership by invitation. Sol Weideinwar is in.

We must be brave. We must face the horrible truth. That’s where all the grandeur and greatness who used to make the Ivy completely impenetrable have gone.

How to get in? How to get up those stairs? What to do once there?

On the other hand, were I the person I’d really like to be –  driver, car at the door, fresh £19,000 outfit every day, Ivy Club – I’d be universally despised.

Isn’t it difficult?