Saturday 2^nd July 2011

Shattering – not perhaps the best choice in the ceramic circs.

It was very quietly, with no whirling or hurling, no preciousness nor arse, absolutely massive. The ceramic launch itself, I mean, which was on Wednesday.

I phoned Val on the way. Other Poor Little Rich Gays were in crisis beforehand as we know. It might have been that ghastly muggy weather or the sheer vastness of the occasion. But once there – reborn.

Unusually the 500-room ceramic was not actually present. There would have been no space, apart from other considerations. But bits of it were rendered into canapés: cucumber shapes within a cube of blue jelly was the Rhine maidens, whited-up, from the great 1923 Accra Ring Cycle (that’s Wagner, if you don’t know). Then an alarming chocolate figure was the mother, furiously refusing to acknowledge the existence of the highly explicit letters written by her son to the white boy. Reggie’s speech was in fact a mime in ceramic style with himself, the Ghanaian High Commissioner and Mrs Ofu gamely playing quite a few of the major ceramic parts. HC was simply superb as the over-revered effigy of the fraudulent national figure.

Can you imagine?  Such grandeur and outrageousness going on in a magnificent suite of 18^th rooms with ceilings by Robert Adam! Just the right setting for Reggie’s launch; Chelsea, Meissen, Herend are his inspiration, the finest 18^th century makers. But Reggie transforms; he does not merely prettify or decorate; no-one can explain how it is done nor, most of all, how he can get a ceramic to dissolve, simply disappear to a wisp.

If you want to see it, you have to go privately to a darkened room. Soon it will be sold into a great collection and kept as one of the world’s rarest treasures, always spoken of.

Meanwhile, back at the party, Poor Little Rich Gays were carrying on not quite as normal but elevated into a better design of Reggie’s making. There were outfits (I teamed white and cream, taking the separates notion absolutely to the wire, with my Dries summer scarf: ‘You copied summer scarves from me,’ Joshua Baring accused. Otherwise I was by Zara); Harry Rollo was in white and cream also with variation offered in a shirt by Comme des Garcons. Ariel was also there (they’ve recently divorced, you know) with a huge kilt pin at the breast. Gothic, he said. Recently they’ve been on a group outing and shouted at each other, then been nice, then shouted again and so on. All very cleansing apparently. Lord Arrowby, my part-time love interest, was radiant: ‘You’re very aggressive,’ he said to me. ‘You get growly’. I was thrilled. I always thought I was more squealy and silly. Later he stood with Robert Nevil, who was speaking, as usual, to a mother who was explaining her son’s interesting hair: ‘I’m not marrying Adrian Edge,’ Lord Arrowby beamed, almost dancing up and down with excitement. Guy Bostock, Lord Arrowby’s muscular ‘mate’ (but really Poor Little Rich Gays don’t have ‘mates’) didn’t know where to look. He’ll have to get used to it. His own arrangements were quite bizarre at one time after all, with his ex-boyfriend living at the other end of his flat. Kernow Hellizon, whose own launch a few weeks ago had Sir Mickland Jagger as the jewel in its crown, was tremendously complimentary to me, Adrian Edge, but rather less thrilled when I prodded him about his aristocratic connections.

I think perhaps I was a little fevered. I said something else wrong but I can’t remember what it was nor to whom. At least a famous opera designer liked my outfit. The same thing happened, if you remember, at the Ivy Club last November with another famous opera designer and another outfit. Harry Rollo informed that he might dine with Sir Mickland. Well, they’ll have stage-work of a kind in common. My Aunt Olive, many years ago, was thrilled to meet someone who’d been on the same cake-decorating course as her at Bournemouth.

Me, me, me: enough. The final element arranged by Reggie was new people or new old people and range – some, I think, would not consider it worthwhile to read a book or enter an art gallery: they are vital at such an occasion. The inner core of Poor Little Rich Gays were peering out at mysterious, never-before-seen young, monied (I like to think) beauty or sculpted men from the club world in revealing clothing or briefly and happily reuniting with Reggie’s old intimates not seen for years.

We must not forget: Constanza Elford, Reggie’s Publicity Executive, whose execution was unsurpassed.

There is no adequate way of ending: I cannot bear to leave this great event behind.

Wednesday 29th June 2011

Only two hours to go: Poor Little Rich Gays are rummaging in Selfridges. What’s happening? Why has frockage fear set in? Why has outfit surge died away?

Harry Rollo is pounding Sloane Street as we speak. Rufus Pitman and Lord Arrowby are hurling garments from the wardrobe, in desperate hope that an ensemble will cohere.

It’s been such a week, you see. Poor Little Rich Gays have consumed their stock – or so they think. But how could they really?

Monday was the Tate Summer Party, yesterday the Serpentine Summer Party; now, today the launch of Reggie Cresswell’s massive 500 room ceramic.

But summer scarves will save us. Summer scarves are new – and separates of course, perhaps with diamonds, if available.

Monday 26th June 2011

Yes! It's Our Special Friend - Upside Down, Of Course

Monday 26th June 2011

The Multis are underway for the Tate Summer Party. See graph below.

But I am at home. It’s been absolutely wracking. You know those pearl grey slacks with metal in them by Niccolo Ceschi Berrini that won’t stay up properly and scratch my intimate thigh? Well, I’ve actually had a similar pair in grey bought in Rome in April – not by a known designer. But I’ve thought them rather casual, being entirely cotton, no metal or anything exceptional, and they’ve sat in a pile waiting to have the bottoms turned up for wear these two months. This morning in this belting heat I thought I’d better seize the chance to prance in them. So I sat, boiling, stitching away, got them turned up, put them on, was thrilled by the fit and saw that they could replace the troublesome metal pair,so, elated,  prepared to leave the house with just some watering to do first. In the garden I knew there are lilies, was on acute pollen alert (it’s the worst stainer of all) but had not reckoned on a low-lying stamen. Within five minutes the superb pearl grey slacks were besplattered with crimson powder and in the deepest crisis.

Just now they’re in laundry (as you might say, ‘She’s in theatre, having her brain drained.’)

Then, at tea, in my Prada stone slacks, wrenched into this morning after the pollen ( if you remember they were planned for the Bath wedding but were shouted down by objectors and replaced at the last minute by the grey metal ones) … you won’t believe this… my tea-pot lid’s always had a will of its own but not usually until the third cup. Today it fell out early, crashed into the cup and bombed tea … I can hardly bring myself to write it…bombed tea ..all over my Prada stone slacks.

Saturday 25^th June 2011

I’m just back and only feeling a little queasy. We took off from Potters Bar at 2pm and flew over the Olympic site as well as Canary Wharf.

I won it in a Charity raffle. Ivor Driver, Laura and Matt Driver’s eldest son, accompanied me and was very impressed by the headphones on board. ‘How much?’ he asked. ‘About £1000,’ the answer.

I’ve quite forgot my frock worries, even missing a whole afternoon at Sale time. It really was thrilling. We saw inside the Olympic Stadium. I hadn’t thought of that beforehand, that we’d see inside. We saw the great loop of the Thames around the Isle of Dogs, the map, as it were, made real, then Greenwich directly below, with, again, a strange view right to the bottom of the two internal courtyards of the Queen’s House. As Ivor said, from the air the buildings look like toys, shapes neatly arranged as a child might, with sections cut out apparently, from this point of view, only for decorative effect. At the same time you can see from one side of London to another, the place in its natural setting and all the vast accretion of our capital just a grey fuzz on the landscape. I wondered what it was like before London was thought of.  I should imagine rather bleak, with huge flat expanses between low hills.

The pilot, who is not really a pilot but a businessman and owner of the helicopter, nevertheless had epaulets of a pilot nature. ‘QVF checked,’ he said to the co-pilot, once we were strapped in, with the blades g-ing up. ‘Good to go.’ ‘Clear at the rear, clear at the front, clear above, good to go.’ Airborne, I noticed a mansion in woods below. ‘Is that Barbara Cartland’s house?’ I asked. ‘No idea.’  A few minutes later he pointed out the White Hart Lane Stadium of Tottenham Hotspur. ‘Interested? I shouldn’t think so.’ I was wearing my summer scarf by Dries van Noten and an old Prada mac in blue, sold as a ‘fashion piece’.

Later I Googled him. He’s been at a boxing dinner to raise money for charity.

Even so, it’s our world, just a different version.

Absolutely Exclusive View of Inside of Olympic Stadium

Rare, Rare View from Private Helicopter of Our Beloved Capital and National River

Never-Before-Seen of Our National River from Private Helicopter

Exceptional, Rare Private Aerial View of Our Beloved Capital

Exclusive View of Top Riverside Apartment Buildings

The Royal Naval College and Queen's House as Seen from Private Helicopter

Saturday 25th June 2011

I can’t wait. I’m due to go up in a helicopter at 2pm and fly over the Olympic site. I won it in a raffle. Ivor Driver is coming with…

So this may be the last you’ll hear of me.

These are my frock thoughts this morning. See graph below. I’m seething with separates and crumbling in the face of massively important upcoming engagements. On Wednesday Reggie Cresswell’s tremendous new ceramic is launched at an event to be always remembered.

I must hope to be calmer before I can report properly on my sales shopping.

But shopping is like life. It is life. It’s not superficial, as commonly thought. First of all there is the plan – to buy shoes perhaps with a purple tinge or more dark shirts. So a person plans to be a doctor or to live in an attractive half-timbered house at Potters’ Bar or High Barnet. Then there are the shops themselves and what the designers are giving. Will the strategy and the goods on offer knit together? Probably not. So we improvise. We hope for inspiration on the spot. Buying is a leap of faith in the end but only a beginning for the garments themselves. We will be up and down with them. Some will bed in and prove loveable, others will not. They change too as they are worn and pursue their mortal course, watched by us. Always there is doubt and dread, often immediately after purchase. Perfection is yearned for but never quite achieved. We never learn but are usually not crushed completely by failure, however slight, and awful at the time.

We may not be entirely what we wear, but our clothes convey some important idea of ourselves. We wear them all the time, after all. The urge to create outfits is a life-force and a marvellous thing.

My Frockage Mind This Morning - It Will Get Better

Wednesday 22nd June 2011

Today I revise the Sales, aiming for jeans and shirts. That will just leave the final late sale final, final reduction surprise bargain hunt to carry out in a few weeks.

Here’s the latest from the Grimsby Hotel – flooring suggestions. Angus Willis is re-shaping the whole of Asda and by extension the Nation as to food styling and photography. Their Headquarters are in Grimsby, hence this hotel, selected by Asda for him to stay in.

'Why Not Order All Three?' Angus Willis Comments: Flooring Options in his Grimsby Hotel

Tuesday 21st June 2011

Midsummer’s Day in fact!

I’m rather weak. So much to tell – the sales, the sales, a massive programme of engagements forthcoming, the outfits lined up and still the Bath Abbey wedding and how I went in the reception line twice and the Best Man, the Groom’s brother, said, in his speech, he had expected Civil Partnership not a marriage…that was the form of wind-up and ritual humiliation.

But no strength to recount. The collapse of the Multis’ car has knocked us back more than we know. Romford BMW were unable to provide a new one there and then. I just can’t believe it. They missed the male wedding on Saturday. A well-known, lachrymose kitchen (see glossary)had a similar experience in an Audi garage. ‘I want that one,’ he said, pointing. They said: ‘You’ve got to wait six months.’ He burst into tears. Now the Multis are faced with a £5000 bill to repair their old car that blew up. The Photo Multi was telling us about it last night. Connor Cadoux came in from a leading financial house. I made two requests: Grind up Greece to powder and throw it in the sea AND don’t let the banks be regulated.

I don’t like the way things are going at all: in ten years’ time we could have an economy on the scale of Samoa’s.

Still, I suppose it would be a change and we would face it with brilliance.

Now I hear from Angus Willis, one of the world’s leading food writers and stylists. Last Friday I was used last minute by him to consume the remains of an M & S photo shoot and also given a bin-bag full of mini beef Wellingtons, mini pork pie slices, samosas, dim-sum, onion bhajis etc, all of which I managed to shift at my little supper last night. Angus has graphed 170 items for the catalogue of the forthcoming M & S party ordering service to be launched in the autumn. So all these items were exclusive preview and unavailable to the general public. There was also a quiche.

Now he is with Asda, at Grimsby, giving a workshop on food styling.

But just look at his hotel. So unnecessary. And unforgiveable. No matter what the poverty of Grimsby. Were Val, one of our most glittering PLRGs, often in extremis from the drink, in charge, he’d have Dutch-gilded everything and run up some heavenly pelmets from remnants, all for 10p. He’s been North by the way, and bought 17 picture frames in a charity shop.

Poor Little Rich Gays here and throughout the world, concentrate your thoughts on Angus Willis, alone in this Grimsby hotel.

Angus Willis's Grimsby Hotel: The Approach to the Room

Angus Willis's Grimsby Hotel: Attactive Window Treatment

Angus Willis's Grimsby Hotel: Corridor Detail

Angus Willis's Grimsby Hotel: The Actual Suite

Saturday 18th June 2011

Just a fevered wave from the Front Line! The Sales are going quite well. I’m honed, glossy, and radiant with inspiration, the poor start yesterday forgotton. This morning I got Harrods covered, also light flirting with Emporio Armani (can’t take seriously), then revised H. Nicks and Prada. This afternoon: Selfridges, Liberty and Topman. I was to have taken a helicopter trip over the Olympic site: I won it in a raffle. But weather did not permit.

Lucky! Last night’s post could have been the last. You only have to snip a wire and a heli drops out of the sky. It’s easily done.

I’m re-building at home in between on M & S pre-release material. i.e  the special order food graphed by Angus Willis and to be launched in the Autumn. I’ve had samosas and beef Wellington bites. Not awfully nice but at least unavailable to the general public at the moment.

Laura Malcolm and Matt Driver are wondering how to piss off the titled personages they are weekending in the country on the understanding that they don’t address them by their first names. Laura has been brewing up in the Audi A4 S line techtronic Quattro all the way.

The Multis set out for a society male wedding to be held in the grounds of a stately in Oxfordshire courtesy of Lady Georgette Minny-Winston, whose son is by coincidence a great friend of Joshua Baring – all Poor Little Rich Gays know each other in the end. BUT the Multi machine has broken down on the way, and they are personally accompanying it to Romford, to from whence it came, where it is to be hurled through the showroom window. They will then buy a new one and re-launch for the wedding.

Peter Acharya and Ned Czernowski are having Victorian cocktails followed by a French dinner.

Friday 17th June 2011

There’s my less than satisfactory behaviour at the Bath Abbey wedding framed by the heterosexual onslaught, the Groom’s toilet talk teamed with the requirement that ties be worn.

But it must wait.

Late last night, Peter Acharya posted on Facebook: ‘The Sales have Begun’. I was in bed, completely helpless. How to stop the vultures picking the shelves clean? No consolation that the shops were closed.

I forged out this morning, with no plan, without reconnaissance and was crushed in Prada. Only a poplin summer shirt with Mondrian trim at £435 minus 30% at all appealing. Lord Arrowby, my part-time love interest, must have one. He loves summer shirts.

But at The Library (it’s a frock shop of some importance) life returned. What a time we had rummaging in the dressing-up box with the Rajah of Harrow – that’s one of the men who adorns that shop! And coming back up Brompton Road in the rain, I suddenly remembered something that solved all my problems.Perfectly astonishing. I had it all the time.

But can’t to divulge now. Am used last minute by Angus Willis. He’s got remains from yet another M & S shoot. I’m due in five minutes.

Can you imagine the joy?

Frock satisfaction, the radiance of inspiration, then used last minute!