Tuesday 9th September 2009
I am being blackmailed – by dubious pretenders to the name of Smallmeal, threatening to expose my supposedly cruel treatment of their adored relation. If you look at recent comment, you’ll see.
They will get nowhere; they’re all frauds. Besides Robin Smallmeal has behaved monstrously. He may be of humble appearance (apart from the Lord Lichfield-style heap of now grey hair, as I saw at Glyndebourne the other day), but he is not to be endured. As for Simon Limpney – he used to be so amusing; he is just a touch fragile.
But, no, I will not be tempted to feel sorry for them. They must be resisted. It is my duty.
Don’t misunderstand. I had not expected to have arch-enemies in my fifties. I have made various rather grim and solemn attempts at reconciliation. I don’t believe in feuds. But the Limpney/Smallmeals do not reply. They are inclined to slam down if telephoned. They are implacable.
So, I’ve no choice but to enjoy hostilities to the max.
Which is exactly what I’m going to do. Call it revenge, if you like.
Be also assured – there is no powerful Smallmeal dynasty, no African branch. Smallmeal was reared in terraced house near the station at Stevenage, a respectable if non-descript dormitory town for London, England. He is a self-made man, you see. Self boot-strapped up. Etc. Miracle of the democratic system. Capitalism’s finest. Limpney is the one from the top drawer (or second one down strictly speaking). Like me, he is LG (that’s Landed Gentry. Robert Nevil is also LG). I’ve kept quiet about it because it doesn’t sit well with being a poor little rich gay. Also one keeps quiet full stop. Being born with a silver spoon in the is a kind of disgrace these days. That’s what Limpney and I had in common – both being LG, used to large country house, ancestral ‘things’, the odd Reynolds, fearful lack of income to support, lovely old granny with handbag and hankie stored in long knickers in the freezing winter.
Then Limpney got deadly serious about pedigree cats.
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I do agree with Edge that nothing truly damaging has been suggested about Smallmeal, other than the horror (utter anathema to us Poor Little Rich Gays) of dreary routine, unspectacular origins, and greying hair. I would not imagine this would deter Ilya, from Kharkov, and what better litmus test than that.
By the way, who told Ilya of my Moscow journey? He arrived unannounced at the Ritz Carlton this morning and I’ve had to place him in the ENTIRELY SEPARATE Brezhnev Suite and send notarised photographs to Vladimir as proof. V expensive practical joke.
Ха-Ха очень приятно брежневские времена Suite. Это был край, который рассказал мне. Моттрам это жир.
And on another issue….
I, too, deplore the intrusion of maniacs, and agree with the Prince that we should keep this blog on track. That track, I presume, is the moral exploration of rich gaiety. So I, too, have a troublesome question for Edge.
I am travelling now to Bucharest, where on Saturday I shall dine with the residual Ceausescus (you will remember that a few of them were put up against a wall at the end of 1989, an unexpected Christmas gift from an ungrateful people). They are consulting me on their investment in the manufacture of rat poison. The question is, how should a Poor Little Rich Gay comport himself with the families of fallen dictators?
You see, in some ways they resemble us closely: they deplore convention (in their case the conventions of democracy), spurn the masses, are indifferent to suffering (certainly if of others), have a high regard for frockage, retain a sense of entitlement even following eviction from office, demand total and obedient service, possess vast amounts of money, are usually elegant and always haughty, and make careful use of make-up and cosmetic surgery. Do you think it is sufficient acknowledgement of the suffering of millions to adopt a slight frown (say no more than a second or two) as we are introduced?
I must know by Saturday.
Oh dear. So poor little rich gays, which started life as such a promising paradox, is now to be just another code for haughty rich fascist. How obvious, and (if I may say so) how dull.
I’m not quite with you, Nicky Taudevin. Who is a ‘haughty rich fascist’?
Adrian Edge, do keep up. I was referring to the contribution immediately before mine. Normally fascist is a silly word to throw about, but that seems to be the quality Anthony Mottram was assuming, or affecting, so drearily.
I do beg your pardon. But I think Mottram has a point. I’ve tried to develop it in my posting today. I think I’d better lie down or lay down as one should say.