Sunday 13^th March 2011

Friday, this gone. Quite a day.  By train to Ashringford for my godmother’s funeral where I was to deliver the tribute. I’d seen little of her in recent years. She had no love of decor, food or frockage (in fact had wood chip paper and basic white paint, not even magnolia) but carried out good works with excellent efficiency, served on committees, was Chair, Governor, raised money, saved some historic marshes. I thought we had little in common.

Why me to offer the tribute? The ceremony was to be at Ashringford Cathedral, where she had been a tremendous volunteer and participant, but surely only in a corner of the vast building, one of our bigger cathedrals, you know.

Well, you won’t believe it. On arrival the family, accompanied by me, Adrian Edge, clucked  the entire length of the nave, coffin securely established before the High Altar, choir and large part of the nave occupied, 500 thought to be present, elaborate bouquet of clergy, full singing choir, organ. Tremendous solemnity and religion, then in the middle of it all, me, carrying on, doing my tribute, in Prada bootees, tiny suit by Lindberg, asides tossed out (‘I knew I’d get that wrong’), funny stories, money (she had money), career brought in, how she liked outrageous clothes (I meant the time she admired my very swirly, many coloured Paul and Joe knit one Christmas), all the time, clutch of clergy sitting behind bristling, thinking ‘How did Larry Grayson get in here?’ and ‘Bring on the incense’ (there was incense).

Then we processed out again, entire length, while the choir sang. I felt like Olga in the Chekov short story, ‘The Grasshopper’ who’d always thought her husband Dymov awfully dreary and unimportant until he died and she found out he was huge in the disease world, massive figure. She seemed so modest, this godmother, with her Ford Fiesta. Who’d have thought she’d give the chance for a Poor Little Rich Gay to take over Ashringford Cathedral?

There’s a lesson in this. But what is it? Anyway my bit was liked, you know, and rather more than the rival tribute by the Canon, about the pilgrimage through life to death.

So then it was back to London, drained and saddened. Do not think Poor Little Rich Gays mock at death or only see opportunities for aggrandisement. We are hard, but not hard-hearted, nor limited. We weave death in – even the Multis, who are perhaps the most death-resistant. The Photo Multi said: ‘Why are you going to a funeral? You should spend more time with the living.’ But he only said this in outrageous defiance thereby conceding more than an inch to death.

Speaking of which, it was home, re-frock, telephone the Gay Mother to brief on the funeral, then out to Maltby Street, Bermondsey for the Blond Multi’s birthday subscription dinner. £25 a head. They paid for the wine. Maltby Street is the scene of  the new Saturday food market, great rival to Borough and championed this season by the Multis as you know. The son of the founder of Monmouth Coffee, whose headquarters and coffee shop are next door, offers dinner here every Friday. It’s absolutely huge and all over the papers. You dine in a lock-up under the arches, trains rumbling overhead, no heating, brown paper tablecloth; Mad Frankie Fraser and the Kray Twins might appear at any minute with vicious intent.

Set menu; excellent. Can’t recommend it enough. Absolutely Poor Little Rich Gay: rare, bizarre and outstanding.

Present: Prince Dmitri Hersov (very down on Prince Andrew, just back from Volvo, Sweden, on accounting work: lovely reception area), my architect Bruce MacBain (vice-like embrace: ‘How many ribs have I broken?’ he enquires jauntily), his partner, Tancredo Viamare (Bruce MacBain creating some pre-bedroom excitement by vigorously snogging others on parting and greeting), Beatrice Cantor, the artist (big opening next week: I’ll be there), Seth Wright, the artist, Elsa Hodgeman, the Gertrude Stein de nos jours, Prof Stella Delaney of the Art School.

View from Table at Blond Multi's Birthday Dinner in Lock-up Under the Arches, Bermondsey

Table Setting with Brown Paper Table Cloth at Blond Multi's Birthday Dinner, Bermondsey

Reception at Volvo Sweden, Liked by Prince Dmitri Hersov, Who Went There