Monday 14th December 2015

So we come to Saturday 5th December which was somewhat climatic although Robert Nevil, for reasons unknown, was unable to attend the Hove function. I travelled to Hove with Bruce McBain, my private architect. It would have been nice to have had two intensely intimate intimates with instead of one.  Hove was a uniform pale liver colour from the endless blocks of flats in the drear winter light. We arrived at Jean Grainger’s old seafront home. She died in May and Peter Achraya and Ned Czernowski snapped up her flat which belonged to Anthony Mottram, ‘consultant’ of Prague. Within weeks it has been whooshed to a required Gay standard of bare wood floors, new everything in pale and sheen, a black glass chandelier and ghost mirror. Jean would have been thrilled. She lived amongst theatre memorabilia, house plants, piles of papers and interesting bits of china. It was a carpeted life with clutter. But she would have been thrilled that she is re-born as a screaming bare wood floor, white walls and gays in every corner. Especially that on her glassed-in balcony were 17-year-old waiters – on secondment from A levels – showing early entrepreneurial tendencies. One of them offered a semi-nude photo to secure the job. Much time was spent by guests near the drinks table enquiring as to their UCAS applications.

So at 6pm, Bruce McBain and I set out from Hove for Brockwell Lido, Herne Hill where Miss Ferney Lee was taking 50 years. Really Bruce and I were less than exquisite after Hove but we were entranced by the Critall windows and thrilling ‘decor for the people’ feel of the entire 1930s Lido movement. It was thought rare that I, Adrian Edge, was at a Lesbian occasion. Lord Arrowby said afterwards that it was greatly liberating for the straight women. I’m not sure why. To be honest, I wasn’t quite sure how you tell which is which. Male gays are self-evident somehow but female gays … I don’t know their world. It’s a failing, I feel. I once heard someone standing in the street outside my residence, peering in at a dinner party in progress: ‘You won’t see any women there,’ the voice declared. Lord Arrowby also said that there was one present who was once viewed as a hot boy by the male gays – so we don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Some consider that the Lesbian world is lentils, peculiar fruit teas, a certain socialist puritanism backed up by aggression. Well, there was no evidence of that here. The canapés showed a love of life and a real feel of Brockwell Park – no manicured Kensington nonsense. There was a quiz which was marvellous and Lord Arrowby was one of the team captains, of course. Rufus Pitman was another. My captain was a woman who was terrifying but fun. Rufus was accompanied by a lady before the quizz who’d got rid of her husband and tried another man who was really more fancied by other men, Rufus Pitman being one of them. A bear-type, I think. She herself was not that keen. Raj Zoraster, Rufus’s actual husband, was in some kind of holding pattern in Paris owing to immigration possibly. Lord Arrowby was entirely preoccupied with frockage being in a lot of it. Paisleys, but incredibly masculine, and perfect for the shy and retiring type who doesn’t want to be noticed.  ‘Who are you in?’ he inquired. ‘Paul Smith,’ I said, ‘cap a ped.’ ‘One size too small, I suppose.’ ‘Should I go to Florida?’ he asked. He’s got holiday in January, as always. Florida? What could the Lord be thinking of. ‘It’s not really me, is it?’ he sighed. But it was nice that Lord Arrowby asked me who he is. Later Lord Arrowby and I separately engaged a younger man in conversation who wasn’t interested – in me, at least. Rufus had had a row with the shirtmaker in India about his shirt because really it was supposed to be an upholstery fabric. But Rufus said, ‘No, it’s to be a shirt.’ So it was and superb: old gold, ultramarine and cerise stripes. ‘Do come to India,’ he said. He and Raj are going too, independent of Lord Arrowby who travels alone. Oh so alone. Hyderbad. I am tempted but have always feared India because of the hygiene. Also it’s not quite clear where one would sit down out of doors in India except in that place where Diana sat in that awful fuschia and purple outfit before the Taj Mahal and gained a lot of pity. Can that be the only park bench in India? And she bagged it.

I should mention that I was excessively fingered at both Hove and Brockwell lido. Only on returning to my res did I grasp that it was because of my velvet. People couldn’t keep their hands off the lovely Paul Smith chestnut velvet. I don’t think it’s marked.

Peter Achraya’s Clucks for the Hove Opening of Jean Grainger’s Old Flat, Now Gay-ed

I was Found to be Stained on Arrival in Hove, but Triumphed with some Q-Tips (Kindly Lent) and a Tiny bit of Fairy Liquid

The Hove Buffet Table