Functions, Functions «

Functions, Functions

Saturday 24th December 2016

So The Red Shoes at the Sadlers Wells. Ballet. Why don’t they talk? It would make more sense. In the front row, Darcy Bussell (hideous halter-neck trouser arrangement), next to her Tom Daley (mascara and eye-liner) and his man ( unreal hair). Richard E Grant blocked my view and Susannah Reid was sitting in my seat: ‘Would you mind swapping?’ She wanted to stay with some Korean make-up artists whom she thought were fashion-designers. Jenufa Saunders was also robed and in the sanctuary – showed an extraordinary grasp of the row number when some people got lost.

Afterwards to Ed Jasper, the bed-linen expert, and Roland Mainflower’s. A classic post-theatre sandwich melange is now served in the drawing room, instead of a groaning buffet in the dining room as in previous years. The young barrister who belongs in the world of Joshua Baring and Patrick Lockyer but also whirls in this and once led me through a field at dead of night, possibly to meet my end, had a different blond escort this year with the same recently-arrived-from-outer-space look. He was called Coniston and had to rush back to write an essay for a fellow student on a paying basis. In the vestibule Ed was shrieking at Coniston re: that barrister: ‘You know he’s evil. Keep away from him.’

Ralph Kitto indeed sat me next to him at his supper on the Friday. Although in between was someone who turned out to have had a baby. I couldn’t believe it. Some Gays had had a baby. They’ve gone through the same channels as Elton apparently who had been immensely helpful. The egg and the surrogate mother all supplied from America at vast expense. The Gays offered a cocktail of their emissions, it would seem, so the father could be either of them. Well, it takes some getting used to. He was awfully thrilled with the baby, this guest, and talked of little else. I slipped down to where Landsdowne Reindorp was sitting (yes, they were there) and said, ‘I’m at the baby end.’ A banker was from America and seemed to be suffering from culture shock. ‘I’m in finance,’ he said. ‘That’s money, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘How did you meet Ralph? Was it in the street?’ Didn’t go down well. He was forced back into his own anecdotage. His private plane, landing at St Barts, had overshot the runway and ended up arse over tit on the beach. Luckily it righted itself and didn’t explode. The event is shown on YouTube.

Saturday was double functions as was Sunday. Why do we function? ‘What would be the alternative? Philip Largs said he could either spend the whole evening canted over some bitch who’d only read Which? or in the company of the moon like an air-sharpened blade. Bruce MacBain and I gained Charlie Armitage and Fabien-Boris Claude’s. I couldn’t stay long. Their spread was fantastic. A lady said menswear was often too big. She was in TV. I was thrilled because of the worry about my Paul Smith red velvet jacket being too small. It was bought in a sale at huge reduction. So then on to Arabella von Gardendoor’s. Different personnel this year: no sign of the anti-Islam Iranian contingent, but her staff were in Ukrainian National Costume. A former MP had advised the Queen who was most responsive.

Burna O’Quigley’s gathering on the Sunday evening was a kind of climax. Raj Zoraster was in every kind of Christmas garb including cardboard Christmas Thunderbird specs. Burna gave me a Christmas bauble for the tree: it is a Crown. When it came to the voting game, there were frequent procedural irregularities which Raj seemed to be at the bottom of, even though he’s at the UN. In any case, he always won, whatever the proposition: such as most likely to wear a lady’s nightie to work or most likely to sustain gunshot wounds. I won most likely to win the 429th series of Celebrity Big Brother, when, Rufus Pitman explained, only mad people would be watching. Later Lord Arrowby arrived from the cathedral with Finn Magnus, the hot Boy Doc. It’s all right for some. But after I’d gone they all got locked out of Burna’s flat with only Finn inside, not letting them in, despite being a doctor.

Upon return from Cousin Paquita’s funeral on the Monday, I was a husk, barely functioning at functions from being over-functioned. Straight from the station to Genevieve Suzy’s Dainty Lady TV lunch at Joe Allen’s. The design department were on Grinder, but not grinding with the gentleman in a fur coat who’d been dining with another gentleman at a nearby table. Genevieve had been busy and the waitress had already become a subscriber to Dainty Lady TV. We had complimentary prosecco. Back home I had to go straight bed, before Harry Rollo and Mercury Mr Kitten’s event in the evening. Harry had only just seen the tribute to Her for her 90th. He’d been thrilled. Nobody has more feeling for Royalty, especially the old rare Royalties, than Harry. ‘Princess Marina!’ he shrieked.