Reggie Cresswell Faces up to Sixty in a Brunel Tunnel «

Reggie Cresswell Faces up to Sixty in a Brunel Tunnel

Thursday 29th May 2014

On Monday Reggie Cresswell took sixty years. Some time ago I heard that the Brunel railway tunnel under the Thames between Rotherhithe and Wapping was to be open for public visits at this time. I only wanted it because it was rare and near impossible to get tickets for. Amazingly Reggie was willing to go even on such a day. It was the very first tunnel under a river anywhere in the world but really built by Marc Brunel, father of the gorgeous, sultry Brunel we all adore who was appelled Ismabard Kingdom Brunel. Remarkable that one of the greatest men of our Nation had such a name. What a miracle! I said to Reggie, ‘I don’t want to know too much about Ismabard Kingdom Brunel. That picture of him looking sultry in front of those chains is enough. And that name!’

So we walked along the railway line from Rotherhithe Station to Wapping in blue plastic gloves for fear of rats’ piss. But the tunnel was immaculate, beautifully kept. When it was first opened, a dinner was held in it. Later it was a foot tunnel and stall holders had the arches between the two bores. It became disreputable. To this day Gays and some Poor Little Rich Gays, who are not very sexual as you know owing to shopping, running the country, career-work, decor, making works of art etc, are found in ‘clubs’ beneath railway arches.

We wondered who else was in our party in the tunnel which is in fact two tunnels. The answer: railway enthusiasts who wanted to know why the number of the up bore was not sequential to (or is it ‘with’?) the number of the down bore. I thought maybe Richard Curtis with us but Reggie said it wasn’t.

Later Reggie took a mansion for an evening party. The Ghanaian Ambass did not attend. Not asked. It was not an official function. Ordinary members of the Public may not realise quite how it is for an internationally-known figure like Reggie. Embraced by the entire world, yet he is far from home, far from Ghana’s palmy shores (I assume Ghana has palms that grow on the shore. Has it, even, a shore?), far from the simple sandy hut of his schooling where the waves crashed outside during Latin.

But a charming evening function took place. Guests were either high or low or both. A French film actress of supreme renown was glimpsed, Harry Rollo played privately the piano, which would normally cost £700,000 (not the piano. I mean, the player). He played ‘Happy Birthday’ and the ‘Tombeau de Coperin’. Rufus Pitman was present but not spoken to by me. Other guests were very whippy, in tiny outfits, and young. Arse was superbly lacking. I mean attitude. There was much healing and embracing. Hot topics were: should the National Portrait Gallery acquire more photos of Brunel (no! no! no! – only the one with the chains, please) and the Kim Kardashian wedding – my God! that was a hot topic. Bruno-France Bruno, the great mystery Poor Little Rich Gay, arrived in a short silver coat with easily 40 minutes to spare before the party’s conclusion. He was full of The Carmelites, by Poulenc, which is being given at the Garden. It seems we’re all to go to it and he’s supplying tickets. So one is going. Marvellous. I didn’t book previously because I’ve heard that all the nuns’ heads get chopped off at the end and it’s a bit ridic. Also he said he’d been to the mansion before, for a wedding where the Bride was in tears. Reason: he, Bruno-France Bruno, had overslept and therefore failed to play the Bridal march for her entry.

Best not to dabble with a live artistic temperament. Stick with canned. Also the vanity and self-importance of the Bridal entrance.

A cohort, including Reggie, was assembled for Soho and has not been seen since. Others ambled quietly home well-pleased and warmed. Reggie has never become an official artist. He was lived on the brink, rooted still in the real rackety world.