Tuesday 21^st December 2010

Just absolutely dashing: Debenhams, Oxford Street – awful –  slippers for the Gay Mother by Isatona – got a Dalmatian print. Then on this eve to the Multis. Prince Dmitri’s coming to pick me up in the Porsche.

So – my party! It was last night. Every half hour yesterday, cancellations. People ill, even in a time of national emergency. Val, who has been more or less sober for four months, claimed a chest infection but I had hysterics and he showed up. Six or seven cigarettes seemed to do him wonders.

But it was all right. I was not destroyed by my own function. Poor Little Rich Gays poured in. All the worlds were covered: books, food, fashion, art, the Royal Household, performance art, clocks, government, private money, business, doctoring, accounting, the law, music. Maybe you could try it. Take 30 or 40 Poor Little Rich Gays, all of them world shapers in their field, absolute leading lights, fingers in top pies, cram them into a fairly small drawing room where the decor whirls and could be thought puzzling, push in champagne and fourteen different canapés –  and they’ll roar away, apparently thrilled. The Multis, who don’t always take a party, were delirious.

Poor Little Rich Gays all know each other, but not always so well. So there is the right level of familiarity, still some curiosity left.  Despite tremendous arse, they give and give; they love to show and be seen.  Poor Little Rich Gays are warm but not gloopy, of course. There’s a thrilling harsh edge and just a  hint of derangement, although Robert Nevil, the biographer of the Pony Club and my second oldest friend, who was unhinged by not drinking, claimed to find quite high levels of insanity – surely erroneous.

I had a few outsiders.  You should too. New people are an enticement, like a boost of bubbles, and PLRGs love them.  In time some of them will become Poor Little Rich Gays too, such as Professor Sir Lewis Buller and his partner, Roland Jackson, the fabricist. Aunt Lavinia, whose voice once ran England and who had been at Bayreuth in the 50s, was a big hit.

‘We’ve never met such interesting people,’ the outsiders said.

No indeed nor ever likely to again.

Fergus Strachan was triumphant after Dermarolla. A spiked roller has been rolled all over his face to jerk the youth cells back into action. Bruce MacBain, my architect, came on from the party of a very famous film actress. Her canapés were laid out to resemble a map. Lord Arrowby bounced in in his alpaca bear coat, no hint of exhaustion, only glamour. He’d jettisoned an important government buffet to be here. He was less intimate than at the other recent party but now he is securely restored as my part-time love-interest, there’s no need. Rufus Pitman, the novelist and critic, in Mitsouko, and dressed in bright red cord trousers as living children’s toy, accused Lord A of having black shoes. Joshua Baring only just escaped the clutches of Mackintosh Baring Gould, his lady boss, to get here. There was a bit of an upset when Angus Willis found out that one of the canapés was by Delia. You know there was all that trouble. It now turns out that he was once entertained by that lady on a Thames riverboat. Very poor baked potato and chilli con carni, not even made by her. Harry Rollo (yes, there is to be synchronised swimming as well as sanding and banging together of bricks in the new ‘performance’ piece to be given in Los Angeles in January) said that Loelia, Duchess of Westminster once declared anyone over 40 on a bus to be a failure. He regrets he can’t rid himself of the notion.

Ivo and Kelm Driver, the sons of Matt Driver, the media specialist whose salary exceeds Robin Smallmeal’s, loathed head of landfill in this country or whatever, and Laura Malcolm, the novelist, were the waiters. Completely thrilling and adept at tunnelling through the guests in the crammed drawing room with the canapés, recalling the chimney boys of William Blake.

For posterity, I record the canapés:

Mini-Pizzas from Food Lab

Mini-Foccacias from Food Lab

Crab Spoons from Food Lab (Blond Multi no like)

Aubergine on Puff Pastry Disc from Food Lab

Quail Eggs and Celery Salt

Smoked Salmon, Salmon Egg and Cucumber Wraps (an Angus Willis concept, executed with poor grace by Robert Nevil )

Heston’s Smoked Salmon Terrine Blinis

Delia’s Brick de Feuille with Parma, Gruyere and Sage

Crostini with Avocado and Tabasco (Angus Willis design)

Tomato, Thyme and Mustard Crostini

Cocktail Sausages (bought by Val from high butcher)

Burnt Aubergine and Tahini on Pitta with Pomegranate Seeds

Parma Ham Bundles (didn’t get pushed out)

Smoked Salmon Cream on Chicory Leaves

Manchego and Quince on Sticks (yes, I got it at Harrods: this was the gesture to the 70s. Val said, ‘Why don’t you get a grapefruit half and have a sputnik?’)

Ottolenghi mini-cakes and tarts

Angus Willis's Smoked Salmon Wrapped in Cucumber Topped with Salmon Egg, Executed by Robert Nevil

The 70s Feel: Manchego and Quince on Sticks

Heston's Smoked Salmon Terrine Blinis: Executed by Val