Sunday 11th March 2012
It was on Thursday. With trepidation, I dare to approach this awesome event after some fearful delay, as you will have noted.
How can I show it? 106 dined. The entire Pont taken over. The main table stretched as far as the eye could see.
Great auguries when by miracle of chance, from my own Official Car with Xenon driving lights, I spied the machine of the Blond Multi’s niece, with another niece and boyf loaded in the back, as it passed through Highgate. They were gaining the Capital from the North for the function.
‘You’ll hate every moment of it,’ Lady Carmichael, the Blond Multi’s mother said to her son in January of the forthcoming birthday banquet. As it happened, after 5 weeks of Mahatmas, tantric practices, gurus, prayer meetings on Ganga’s bank (I mean, the Multis’ Indian visit), the Blond was radiant. But do not mistake – no brassy hostess. Many might imagine that Poor Little Rich Gay millions have banished all modesty and bought a hideous rubbery social poise. They’d be wrong. The Blond was just so pleased anyone had come at all; he made an enchanting speech,without notes, full of self-deprecation.
Oh the range and span of guests united under the Multis’ vast wing! Generosity’s glory, allowed by money, assembled high and low, rich and poor, young and old, all exceptional. Val was there, still on crutches after his hip-snap while sauced last September, and aunts and mothers, not just the Blond’s, and a Chelsea Gold Medal Winning Garden Designer and Peter Acharya, fresh from suing in the Caribbean, and Ned Czernowski and Marcus Cargill, England’s leading clockmender, and Arne Berginer, Seth Vaughan, Beatrice Cantor, greatnesses of the art world, and a whole of host of young people with daunting poise and charming manners.
Everyone was brought together by the Multis.
We began on our feet with champagne and canapés. So many to meet, so many brief, haunting fire-fly encounters. Then through to the dinner. I had Lady Carmichael, mother of the Blond, next to me. ‘Is it a banana?’ she inquired of the 1st course. It was in fact a fish mousse, a banana-like shape on the plate. The menu was superb, high and rare, not fancy. The finest wines accompanied. Val was en place d’honneur, next the Blond Multi himself. They spoke of Madonna. When their other neighbour and her husband met Madonna, the greatness was preoccupied that she would fail to rise to the role of Evita, then forthcoming. The husband sought to soothe: ‘Don’t worry. Evita couldn’t sing either.’
Val was in his self-made and knitted alpine look, which refers in fact to the Norwegian Alps. His hair was said by Marcus Cargill, England’s leading clockmender, to recall Bette Davis in All About Eve. His accessories were pewter.
On rising from the table, quite a few Poor Little Rich Gays fell immediately over. Well, not literally, but you know what I mean. Bruce MacBain, my private architect, driven to friskiness, picked up Peter Achyra, who is small but perfectly formed, and made to hurl him in the Thames, quite without malice. Later he chased us all the way to the taxi on Tower Bridge. Laura Malcolm and Aunt Lavinia had great difficulty in gaining their car and, according to Val, who travelled with them, had only a dim idea of their home addresses.
Never will we forget this stunning 50th Birthday Event. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Multis.
The Pont as Prepared for the Blond Multi's 50th Birthday Dinner
Philip Lim Dress Fragment at the Blond Multi's 50th Birthday Dinner Worn by Merton Silverwater
Philip Lim Dress Worn by Merton Silverwater at the Blond Multi's 50th Birthday Dinner
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