Wednesday 30th May 2012

Haven’t found anything in salmon nor a pearl grey suit. Will try to cover H. Nicks on Saturday.

But I’ve a luncheon on Tuesday. Princess Alexandra on Monday. Glydebourniana also to be squeezed in.

This Jubilee is a glory but also a rack with shops shut so long. How to manage a salmon (the thing, not the shade) bought on Saturday to be consumed on Tuesday?

But Harry Rollo writes in person to further illumine, just for you, his great meeting with Her Majesty the Queen, the Sacred Majesty of England, at the Royal Academy last week:

‘Kernow Hellizon handled the whole thing matchlessly. He predicted the probable route of Majesty and we went round the back for an interception.

Hellizon explained to Majesty who was H Rollo. I shook England’s Hand and said, “Your Majesty”.

Majesty, after a moment’s thought, said:

“Music is important.”

Whatever I mumbled back made her say:

“Lord Fellowes told me he has written an opera.”

I, dumbfounded, said, “Julian Fellowes”.

“Yes, Lord Fellowes. Downton Abbey.”

And in a puff of Divine Right, She was gone.

She was very small and completely magnetic.

The official who announced Her approach was strangely modern, in black Issey Miyake pleats and brutal fringe.

Next up was Tracey Emin whom I saw make the same rearguard manœuvre in order to be sure of an Encounter.

The thing is, in order to Find Majesty, one had to walk away from the celebrities, away from the starry throng, into near empty rooms. So there was a huge element of risk. What if one abandoned Susan Goodyear (one of our leading novelists, tremendous intimate of Rufus Pitman, also leading in novels) for Majesty, missed Her, and ended up with neither?

I had to sweep past name after name, hot famous boy after hot supermodel actress, dashing them aside in my Quest. Rufus Pitman chose Susan Goodyear. He stayed with Susan Goodyear (who is yet to novel a brutal sex party for bear-shaped male gays in an agreeable sea-side town, as has Rufus).

A bird in the hand.’

So ends Harry Rollo’s account.

Tuesday 29th May 2012

Still racked: pre-JubOlympic strain. Not a thing to wear.

I want a suit in pearl grey: just the right shade. Otherwise salmon is this season’s colour. Lord Arrowby has championed it. It was also seen by the Multis on the car parking person at the Parker Something Hotel, Palm Springs.

After my weekend with Frankie-Doreen May and Giles Ullerston, and that parapet collapse at Princess Irina Hersov’s – well, Frankie-Doreen and Giles read the newspapers. They can tell you the statistics for literacy in Scotland. They’re against Austerity and the Monarchy.

The entire Poor Little Rich Gay edifice could crash to the ground at any minute. That life of earnest triviality and quiet privilege ( I say that, scratched even on the face by a rose I’ve been styling all morning: the National Gardens Scheme might inspect my garden for possible exhibition to the public! Utter hell, nothing’s ready. On top of everything else) all up in smoke.

Poor Little Rich Gays expect to be wheeled to the guillotine at any moment. We ought to be used to it. But we’re not.

There’s something else I thought of to be worry about but I can’t remember what it is.

So the Queen.

Oh, now I’ve remembered. Has there been another earthquake in Italy? What if Tuscany cracks open? Selfish thought.

But the Queen.

At the Royal Academy last week it was Kernow Hellizon, the novelist, who knew what to do. He got Harry Rollo and Rufus Pitman stationed in a particular spot (Tracey Emin was spied using the same method) and sure enough an official came up and said, ‘Her Majesty will be passing this way in a minute. Would you be happy to meet her?’  So they said, Yes. Then it was ‘Well, get rid of your glass.’ ‘Music is so important,’ Majesty said to Harry, whose performance art performances usually involve music, even if made with rocks, thereby contradicting Rufus Pitman, who had previously declared music not important. Then Majesty switched to Downton, as in Abbe Downton. How she veered is not known. I suppose Harry  was in too great a state of transfiguration to observe.

Anyway, Harry said, ‘Julian Fellowes’ and Majesty corrected: ‘Lord Fellowes.’

Oh, the Majesty of England!

Sunday 27th May 2012

I’ve been in Cardiff. I took a Tristan with Frankie-Doreen May and Giles Ullerston; they’re dead against austerity and not that keen on the showy dance of money. What with the parapet falling off the front of Princess Irina Hersov’s house as well as the Self home next door, thereby threatening all homes (the home is central to Poor Little Rich Gay life, but not with a family in it: a family would mess it up), I’m feeling a little fragile.

The Multis are still in America: we must have their graphs soon. They’ve been at both Palms, Beach and Springs. They seem to be quite different, although both with palms. Now they’re back at the Sherry Netherland, New York, in the same room as at the beginning of the month and with welcome note hand-written in same hand as wrote the farewell note for their departure therefrom and equally delighted and excited.

For reasons unknown, the Blond Multi has been graphed before a vintage car with Jay Leno, whom I’d never heard of but others inform me is massive in TV show and wealth. How the Multis spend their time in America is never quite clear. I think they drive and graph and hang out and make calls to new people suggested by other people and meet up and it’s as if they’ve known them for ever and after they’ve gone those people can’t quite believe that the whirl of cuff-links, tailoring, bizarre shoes, art world talk, hotel talk, politics talk and champagne ever really happened.

You could say that the American spirit created the Multis. But they are not of that country. They lack the deadliness of the classic American success story.

The Blond Multi has been championing a fantastic ensemble of pink shorts and blue and white stripped seersucker jacket in America.

But Chelsea, Chelsea, the Flower Show. I’m afraid I’m not responding very adequately to the Euro crisis and the doom of poverty for millions. All I wanted to do was to penetrate a show garden at Chelsea and meet the Queen. Not at once, you understand. I wanted to actually get inside one of the show gardens. The paying public have to hover round the edge. To get beyond the rope cordon, to get into the garden, you have to be in the know.

It was achieved. Archie Gressingham, friend of the Multis, former Gold Medal winner at Chelsea, by sheer coincidence, former tenant of Aunt Lavinia’s, this year did the Laurent Perrier garden and was in it as we passed.

We gained, we penetrated.

Marvellous garden and actually being in it was worthwhile beyond the cachet. He showed us his plants,rare and unusual in themselves and the overall effect strikingly dusky and boldly unpretty. Superb raised pleached copper beach double hedges, as never seen before.

Above all, no hideous hard-landscaping! Every other garden ruined, quite ruined by ghastly naff non-plant ‘features’: Joe Swift garden had ridiculous superfluous arches in some awful bright orange wood. ‘Best in Show’ garden, by Cleve West championed what looked like garden-centre fake stone with cement sculptures.

I’m sure I said the same thing last year. It’s just too bad, it really is. Why, oh why didn’t Archie Gressingham get ‘Best in Show’?

There’s more to come on Harry Rollo’s encounter with the Queen, by the way.

Archie Gressingham: Gold Medal Winning Chelsea Garden: Ought to Have Been Best in Show

Archie Gressingham: Subdued Palette: Why No 'Best in Show'?

Carol Klein Seen in Archie Gressingham's Garden at Chelsea: If You Don't Know Who She is, Her Coat is Good

Thursday 24th May 2012

Last night Poor Little Rich Gays were at the Royal Academy reception for artistic greatnesses attended by the Queen last night. Harry Rollo texted: ‘Have met Majesty.’ It turned out he meant Ottolenghi – well, we know how central he is to Poor Little Rich Gay life. Rufus Pitman, our novelist and columnist, is the other Poor Little Rich Gay known to have been present. Robert Nevil and Reggie Cresswell were surely also there but unannounced.

Wednesday 23rd May 2012

I was fearing the worst of Robert Nevil. It looked as if he had perpetrated a fraud with that graph of the Sacred Majesty of England at the Chelsea Flower Show. Even himself, he was hinting he’d merely opened a newspaper and snapped. He has been known to hoax before. It shows such range: only a Poor Little Rich Gay could be on committees one minute and weaving a horrifying deception the next.

But Blanche Spain explains all. She is close to the Throne and knows. See her comment on the previous post.  Robert Nevil was tending towards a double hoax.

I was at Chelsea yesterday and gained insider knowledge. That’s the third important insider slab I’ve gained in a week.

Now there’s a forth: rather less fortunate. Poor Princess Irina Hersov, sister of Prince Dmitri Hersov (at the Accounting School with the Multis)  and her mother, the Grand Duchess: they are neighbours of Sir Wilfred Self and his lady wife. Angus Willis, one of England’s leading food writers, possessor of the Angus Willis Home Store, Hastings (all over the Graph a few weeks ago) and Fergus Strachan (he of the Dermaroller) are coincidentally fearfully intimate with the Selves and have been for years.

Well, last night, at the dinner hour, the front parapet of the Self home, Princess Irina’s next door and two other houses adjoining – the front parapet just fell off. Just like that. Luckily nobody was killed. They’ve all had to vacate. Princess Irina and her mother have relocated to the Prince’s spacious Mews.

Just awful! Let’s hope repairs can quickly be carried out. Nobody knows why such a thing should happen.

Joshua Baring, our youngest Poor Little Rich Gay, lives just round the corner.

Monday 21st May 2012

She’s gained. Robert Nevil told me even Committee members were to be pitched out before her arrival.

But no! He’s graphed her. She’s there.

Poor Little Rich Gays throb so near the Throne – at Jubilee time.

Gardening Queen: the Sacred Majesty of England at Chelsea Flower Show: Shot Taken by Robert Nevil 2 Minutes Ago

Monday 21st May 2012

Robert Nevil, that miracle of Committees, is just this minute back from the President’s Lunch at the Chelsea Flower Show ground. (No, he’s still there. See above)

He’s on the Committee, of course.

Royston King was there too, on account of another Committee.

Poor Little Rich Gays are on committees especially if they have no real source of income. Many relinquish paid work to be on committees.

I, Adrian Edge, hope to ‘get on’ soon. So much protocol and regimen. Soothing.

Anyway, you get these graphs EVEN BEFORE THE QUEEN, who is yet to gain the show ground.

The Chelsea Flower Show Tent Cleared for Committee Members to View: Don't Worry if You Don't Care about Flowers: It's Huge

Dirmuid Gavin Garden: Chelsea Flower Show 2012

Sculpture Garden at Chelsea Flower Show 2012

Sunday 20th May 2012

Reggie Cresswell, the internationally known Ghanaian ceramicist, deployed me at the National Portrait Gallery for the opening of ‘The Queen: Art and Image’, their Jubilee tribute to the Sacred Majesty of England. We met the Director. We met the Director. He’d met Her Majesty when he took the German photographer to Windsor. Everywhere I went last week, insider information whirled, even at Val’s little birthday party at Cafe Rouge, Strand-on-the-Green. Oh yes, the nightclub and Lady Annabel is to attend the opening. Val was a bit filthy actually and faintly fumy, despite only two weeks since his hip replacement. I think he’d taken port wine to the point of careering over into raging against  austerity measures. He’s wildly against. He wants spend, spend, spend.

Of course, the Euro was throbbing in the background, has been all week.

Reggie Cresswell thinks the same, as Val, I mean. I don’t, of course. I want all the money saved for the Rich. Which is ironic in view of what was to happen.

Yesterday Robert Nevil and I took the National Portrait Gallery, as ordinary members of the public unfort (RN is not on that committee yet,  he’s huge on committees but only the RA, RHS, LL, KY and M25, so far) for the Lucian Freud exhib. Completely thrilling but all was swept away by subsequent events. We lunched at Les Deux Salons, King William IV Street. Installed, Robert Nevil dropped it. ‘Miss Mina Shivaratnam,’ he said, (she of Bengal), ‘Miss Mina Shivaratnam, she was talking about you.’ I fire into life. To be talked about it! I’ve met Miss Mina quite a few times at functions.  ‘That Adrian Edge,’ (she’d said ). ‘Now clearly Joshua Baring’s  rolling in it  [you remember him? One of our youngest Poor Little Rich Gays], but that Adrian Edge, of course, he’s got no money at all.’

I could see it then and there. Instant devaluation. At least 80 per cent. Just like the Greeks if they leave the Euro.

No money at all! What about my face! My Goetz-Malin moisturiser at  £25 for 25 ml!   My fake tan! My hair, shampoo-ed by Bumble and Bumble! My niche perfumes! My clucks! My Topman get-ups!

No money at all!  Just a bag-person! A homeless!

And their hue better in summer from the outdoors.

Thursday 17th May 2012

Oh this Euro Crisis! Am racking my brains trying to remember if I have Greek properties. Spain though is hideous. I’m getting out of Santander on Monday.

Val has just texted to say he’s worried that the Olympic Flame will go out while in the care of Princess Anne. He’s sending a packet of Swan Vestas to the Palace in case. On the other hand she might put the flame in her handbag for ease while she runs all the way back to the East End. I said I thought it unlikely her hair, that loaf, would move at all during the trans-Europe run. ‘With all that lacquer she could take over as a living Olympic torch,’ Val returned.

Tomorrow is Val’s birthday. We take a slightly economical Cafe Rouge. The Multis are away – in New Orleans now, where there seems to be a Warhol in the bedroom. They’re visiting with Santon de Belvoir and Blue Roland, of old Southern families. They love antiques and the British Royal Family and wear tweed when possible.

I promised my final tulips, the third display I mounted of these difficult flowers at their most violent in parrot and fringed form.

My Final Tulips: Fringed Elegance (yellow), Professor Roentgen (orange parrot), Honeymoon (fringed white)

Tulip Professor Roentgen: Menacing, Impossible, Fabulous

Tuesday 15th May 2012

We haven’t properly drilled into America. We haven’t grasped it from the Poor Little Rich Gay point of view.

I was always dead against because, in the 80s, the Earls Court Gays, with their gleaming white teeth, unalloyed money, gym bodies and devotion to success, would always hurl New York as a missile to crush the wretched provincialism of London and anyone preferring it. They were always jetting in 1st class, assuming the reins of certain hotels and forging from there into high-powered, well-muscled circles.

Now the Multis are touring the country for three weeks; they’ve taken New York, where Beatrice Cantor’s art show stunned America. She’s from Hackney. The Multis were at the Sherry Netherland Hotel with an appalling bamboo-effect coffee table.

Then they flew on to Palm Beach! Palm Beach! To visit with Rocky Banner and Lansdown Reindorp, of the American Poor Little Rich Gays (but I’m wondering if there are any Poor Little Rich Gays in America)  who were once lodged on Central Park South, one of the best addresses in the world. Before that they were known and loved in London.  Now they’re at Palm Beach.

Palm Beach is the rest of America, not New York. I’ve heard is very high, mansions in rows not separated by fences or walls, in the American democratic style. Lord Black of Jail was there. Rocky and Lansdown gave a function for the Multis at the Country Club, I believe.  The Photo Multi has taken graphs, of course.

Oh America! America!

Dear, Darling Palm Beach, America, with Sea View (it's the Atlantic, the Same as Us)

The Wild, Wild Waves of Palm Beach: One of the Photo Multi's Greatest

Another Stunning Shot of Wild, Wild Palm Beach by the Photo Multi

American Life and Looks by the Photo Multi

Throw-Away Society: Unwanted Sanitary Ware in America: the Photo Multi

Palm Beach: Luxe Apartments

Humour in America: the Photo Multi: Dr Hedgehog's Had Enough

American Brands: Palmy Burger King at Palm Beach: the Photo Multi