Tuesday July 7th 2009

At least Anthony Mottram got through the night and is now in transit for Prague. He must be feeling better. He has been wickedly insisting that he was attended by Nurse Probert. Who is she? Must be one of the killer nurses like Nurse Fletcher from One Flew Over…. And I did get a perfect late-sale bargain at close of shopping play last evening.

 But I can’t stop long. I’ve got to rush for Glyndebourne and I’ve just realised in all the Swine flu drama yesterday I completely forgot to mention the Gay Icons opening party at the National Portrait Gallery. It was last week. You may have heard about it. There’s been quite a fuss. Terrific crush. Boiling heat. I wore my new white suit by Theory, seized on the first day of the Harrods Sale at half price (£214). There’s no point in spending a lot on a white suit. You wear it twice and it has to go to the cleaners. Then the summer’s over. Anyway suit much admired, until that is Wesley Kerr looms. Do you know him? Used to be a reporter on Newsnight. Now does the Chelsea Flower Show on BBC, in charge of squillions of lottery money for London. Tremendously grand and rude. He assaults suit, says it’s far too small and demands to know what I’m doing at the party. I manage to lob back: ‘How on earth did you get in? I suppose you’re paying for it all.’ ‘No,’ he says, ‘I’m here because I’m black.’ The party rather papered out I thought with porridge-coloured corporates (must have been to do with Rose d’Anjou who sponsored the exhibition) on nightmare tightrope, not wanting to be thought gay yet terrified of appearing unsympathetic. Otherwise, it was the usuals – Grayson Perry in tea-cosy frock, Vanessa Feltz, Germaine Greer.  Mercifully no sign of Sir Elton, one of the top gay selectors of  icons for the exhibition, nor, thank the Lord, of Simon Limpney and Robin Smallmeal. Had they appeared, there would have been two more gay icons, I can tell you – splattered on the wall.  Alan Hollinghurst, another selecting top gay along with Sir Elton, was his usual discreet and forebearing self but he must have been embarrassed to find his rare and refined choices (exquisite, indomitable, obscure novelist, Ronald Firbank, died 1926; you must read) mixed up with Billie Jean King’s mother (perfectly charming, I’m sure), Will Young, Gianni Versace and Jeff Stryker. Critics have been complaining but miss the point. Only gays could have created such a glorious muddle.

  I really must get off for Glyndebourne. I do hope Michael Portillo won’t be there. I’m sick of seeing him everywhere.