Tuesday 5th October 2010
Have you heard? Robert Nevil was standing right there when it happened. He’d just been talking to the celebrity author of family blockbuster saga, Jonathan Franzen, about some rare literary thing.
Or so it seemed.
But he was Carabosse. That fab fairy who speaks for those excluded from parties everywhere. Poor Little Rich Gays are never excluded. That you must remember if you want to be one, which you do. Forge in. Wangle. If all else fails, curse.
An assailant leapt out of the bushes near the Serpentine Gallery, snatched the Franzen specs and deposited a ransom note for $100,000. He was later dragged out of the Serpentine itself by the Police. Alive, apparently.
It’s really true. I’m not making it up.
Must have been a Poor Little Rich Gay needing $100,000 for an outfit.
It wasn’t Rufus Pitman. Who is gloriously, simultaneously the foundation of our cultural life without whom entire edifice would topple AND massive spanner in the works, able to reduce pompous old farts who chair committees to spluttering helplessness. Once he had his dogs eat all the canapes. So they were helpless, and starving.
The Actual Ransom Note from the Franzen Party
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The dog used to hang around with a Look on his face whenever canapes or elaborate St John-type dinner was in the offing, and would demand feeding. Once made the mistake of hauling out every single innard from a giant roast goose to feed him. He downed the whole lot in one, looked instantly very green and then deposited it again on the back step. Only then realized I’d fed him an entire foie gras, or very nearly.
The parties for Turner and Franzen were very nice, thank you. I kissed two government ministers, which counts as a social success in my books. Awfully old friends, though.
Any dog of yours would only eat important food. Gov min are grand, aren’t they? Although often they have no money at all, unless fingers in till, and are without decor. Frockage zero, as a rule.