Saturday 5^th March 2011

Poor Little Rich Gay landmark birthdays must be ludicrous, haunted by beauty and rich with meaning. Harry Rollo is the world-class performance artist and impresario, who arcs with ease from moisturiser to performance art. Do you know the performance art? For example, women in Issey Miyake accordion pleating fail to boil eggs in glass saucepans above while below construction workers underwater drill and bubble. Are they beauty or Hell? Their blue water through tubes is in the saucepans. Blue steam arises. The accordion pleating also fails.  It is art as well as music and poetry and sculpture: hard and rare, but huge. The newspapers are agog every time it is given.

For his 40^th Birthday, on Tuesday, Harry Rollo switched the Thames to champagne (‘Sweet Thames run softly until I end my song’). On a vast barque in the big Spring dark a compact gathering of superbs floated downstream, some reputable, some not. Oh the range! Not all household names, you know, but none not exceptional. Had we been rammed by a slag-ship what a loss of talent! – Reggie Cresswell, the Ghanaian ceramicist of world repute, Rufus Pitman, the novelist and critic (new work forthcoming: brilliant), Miss Lamore Cellina, in rubber corset (she’s done her share of TV competition judging, make no mistake, as well as more delicate arts), Ned Boule, the percussionist, with new young pierced partner from Berlin via Bratislava, Harry’s Aunt Birda, who at once declared war on the music. And on the banquette, which ran down the side of the state room, a huge Name, accompanied by younger perfectly-formed blond friend, in some isolation. ‘What do we do about the Name?’ Miss Lamore enquired. ‘Fifteen years ago I’d have imposed. Now I’m not so sure.’ The Name did not move. I discovered later from his Twittering that he was on pills and had only gained this country from afar that day. Groups of concentrated greatness were brought to the Name. They seemed to come in waves. Next time you looked, they’d been replaced. The Name brought out a phone and was showing it.

Elsewhere on board, the talk was high in between what was really a whole supper delivered in sections in small bowls: a little spag with salmon, a cottage pie, a quiche and one with a poached egg that proved elusive: ‘I want the one with the egg,’ guests cried before resuming their topics: competitions to be judged. One had three competitions to judge for a national newspaper. I covered Monet and some poets, brainy for me.

I think we were all in our prime. I’ve only recently taken to having topics at a party. For years I relied on hysteria. I’m rather nifty with my topics – I adjust them to suit the person I’m speaking to or even whisk them up on the spur of the moment. Poor Little Rich Gays are strange: raving egomaniacs of course but not bores – they actually ask questions and take an interest in others. Can you imagine? I never used to bother nor remember anything about anybody; such a grind, so unrewarding. Much better to do a set-piece about Grace Monaco. But now I’m probing away all the time. I love it.

So we docked and our floating time was over. We removed to Harry’s apartment which is practically on the stage of a substantial place of entertainment. There Harry offered cake, opened his presents (La Prairie items and five tubes of Full Strength Line-Reducing Concentrate by Kielh – not needed by recipient, yet) and demonstrated his unique-edition Nikes (see graph below) while his father explained to me the important pictures on the walls. Later I learned something new about Botox: the effect doesn’t wear off as commonly supposed. You revert to the condition you were in when injected and remain there for good.

Isn’t that marvellous? There was quite a lot of worry about Zsa Zsa Gabor’s other leg, though.

Poor Little Rich Gays were poised and lived up to the greatness of the occasion – Harry Rollo’s 40th Birthday

Harry Rollo's Unique-Edition Celebration Nikes - Worn on his 40th Birthday

Harry Rollo's Presents - Here a Chanel Fume

More Presents! Products! Products!