Wednesday 16^th February 2010

On Saturday I had an all-male dinner to introduce Trenton, known to you as the seller of art to the Multis and employer of four personal trainers to produce massive, heaving pecs. He arrived by taxi of course in a Prada coat (it is host’s privilege to monitor labels of deposited outerwear).

In my quest for the Platonic ideal of Poor Rich Little Gay food, I went back to Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Do you know it? There was that film, Julia and Julia, all about it. Minutely detailed, almost technical manual by Julia Childs of exactly how to create classic French dishes. Great highlight was when Val, years ago, made Soufflé de sole au sauce mousseline Sabayon, the recipe at least 16 pages long, every stage a cliffhanger – would it curdle, fail to rise, fall apart, its components not all be ready at the same time? The result was a heroic presentation of as many different ways with eggs and butter as possible, enveloping tiny parcels of sole. Outrageously voluptuous and delicious.

Mastering the Art of French Cooking is right up Val’s street. As it happens, he’s just been round, to give my chair a couture fitting for its silk panels – see graph below.

His reincarnation phase continues. No a whiff, magnificently abstemious. Told me he’d been up a step-ladder to change a light-bulb. The first time in years.

But I rather think my guests on Saturday were a little puzzled by the pale correctness and lack of health of my Potage Creme de Cresson with its liaison of eggs and cream.

Trenton said that, sadly, yes, he did know Alexander MacQueen, as well as James Franco, of Spiderman. MacQueen was some time ago. He dined or lunched at the gallery and horrified the other guests by pulling up his shirt to display a blood-stained corset under which lay newly-achieved liposuction. At the other end of the table, Rufus Pitman was mainly talking dirty, it would appear. Someone has paid £2000 to feature as a character in his latest novel. They are to be ‘fisted to death on the dining table’.

Trenton and Ned Czernowski were giggling and conspiratorial. ‘What is it?’ I said. They didn’t like to say. Later I understood. I saw it myself. My mouse scampering across the floor. Really, the nerve! Right in the middle of a state dinner. I’ve been after this creature for weeks. I keep meeting it on the stairs. I’ve had a trap down with best Parmesan, but mouse no like, no show. Trenton said, ‘You’d better watch out. You could be infested.’

Yes, all my couture, my accoutrements, my frockage, bedspreadage, carpetry, not to mention wiring, gnawed to shreds.

Trenton said that sadly he had to go on. He’d come on from in the first place so evidently a very full gay diary. Birthday party of an older gentleman,  penthouse apartment in Drury Lane. ‘I’ve been there,’ I said. And I have too. ‘Six grey cats.’ And so has the noble and divine Lord Arrowby, only the other day, and sat on a sofa where, it was claimed, the day before cum-shots had been filmed.

It’s a small world when you’re at the top.

My Chair Having its Couture Fitting by Val

My Chair Having its Couture Fitting by Val