Monday 5^th October 2009

I’m sorry for the delay. But I’ve whirling and heaving and slamming to get straight again almost non-stop since Thursday with an interlude in the country I’ll tell you about tomorrow.

Thursday last at 7.30 Prince Dmitri Hersov arrives (always absolutely bangers) and the vast machinery of my self-given birthday dinner purrs into action.

 Do you know, say it myself as shouldn’t, it all went off all right. Which really is a miracle. At times during the day I was so wracked by pre-dinner nerves, so exhausted, with face like a concrete slab aching and throbbing, I craved the grave.

 It’s always been like this, ever since the Gay Mother and I gave a large children’s party in about 1968.

 All the same, what kind of dinner could possibly result from a relaxed approach? ‘Relax’ is my least fav word in the whole English language. I shall only relax when finally confined to the earth.

The guests poured in – the Multis, Laura Malcolm, Matt Driver, Robert Nevil (who, saintly, came early to help), others you don’t know as yet, Arjun Bose, a finely-wrought Indian friend of Robert Nevil’s who has somehow ended up renting the basement flat of Giles Ullerston, (at Barrowborough with Mottram and me), and his dynamo wife, Frankie-Doreen  Gunn (both present), Sebastian Archer, partner of Robert Nevil but not mentioned so far owing to prolonged absence abroad for health reasons, and finally Peter Acharya and his partner, Ned Czernowski, formerly of New York, who give dinners and have twice been on an Atlantis Gay Cruise. We’ll be hearing more of them.

 They showered me with presents; they were warm and jolly. My nerves evap. Just slid away. Amazing. Now, I couldn’t tell you much about what they got up to for the rest of the evening. Arjun Bose had the most superb shirt in a floral print; Peter Acharya wore an exceptional necklace. No doubt Matt Driver imparted some little known facts such as: which item is most frequently stolen from supermarkets? Answer: razor blades.  The photographer Multi speaks very clearly. I managed to grasp that he was exasperated:  Bloomberg have extended Stuart Cumberland’s show; so how are the huge artworks they have bought to be installed in time for the visit this coming Sunday of an important Palm Springs curator (with  lunch following attended by greatest living artists and me at La Pont )? And, what’s more, these items are going to have to be taken off their frames, rolled up and re-stretched at a cost of £2000; there’s no other way of getting them into the marble-clad penthouse.

 I got hold of that much. I do talk to my guests at my dinners but I don’t really know what I’m saying. This is an issue: What is the host’s main object? Is it service, table-styling, plating up, pushing out, tea or coffee?  What about conversation? How is that to be fitted in?

Chefs in restaurants don’t have to have conversation; it’s not fair really.

 But my food – I did enjoy it. I didn’t turn against my own food, as has been known. My fig and goat cheese 1^st course was liked. I should hope so too, all the money it cost. I don’t think I’ve made it clear that the figs were supplied by special gay arrangement with the Ottolenghi shop itself. They don’t normally sell raw ingredients. And all those strange spices in the chicken – absolutely thrilling. Nigella’s middle-class family pudding I thought was oozy apple puree with bits of toast in, but the blond multi (who gives detailed feed-back) said it was his favourite.

 I need to say more about my table styling, presentation and general level of facilities. There are areas of true gay style I’ve yet to acheive. I lack commitment; I need to be harder. For a start I need to spend about 3 million on premises large enough to accommodate the grandiose number of guests I aspire to. You’ll also be wondering: where were the staff?

 But I’ve gone on  long enough for one day. These urgent topics will have to wait. Besides I’ve to dash round to Peter Acharya and Ned Czernowksi’s for the second dinner in a week. Apparently they’ve having some gays who might be quite vicious – or not. We shall see.