Thursday 28^th October 2010

The Gay Mother’s all right on food, although I was knocked down when she ordered Deep-Fried Brie Wedges at Hardwick on the way back from Yorkshire. But frockage has always been a battle since my birth 52 years ago. Essentially I’ve had to take it over and wear it all myself.

We went to the much-talked-about Jorvik Viking Centre in York which turned out to be an old-fashioned automata show with dusty powder-paint scenery. The Viking look was wraps in shades of porridge, very similar to what is being worn today, according to the Gay Mother. ‘They all look such a mess,’ she declared. ‘I hope I don’t,’ I said. She made no reply.

We went to all the department stores in York, the GM in quest of good warm trousers and some ‘shirts’. At the Clinque counter in Fenwicks she bought a new foundation. Well, that was something, but Clinque is for beginners, i.e. teenagers – like Clarins. She spotted a French Connection and bowled in. ‘They had lovely shirts here before.’ ‘That was in 1982,’ I said.  ‘Shirts are not being worn this season. How about a fun fur?’ ‘What would I do with that in Milton Sowerbutts?’ she said, that being her village.

Hovering by the bras I began to feel self-conscious. ‘Are you buying a skirt?’ some speak-as-I-find Yorkshire bag said in passing. Maybe the Gay Mother would have preferred grandchildren rather than a son in a Prada mac with a face by Institute Esthederm. Perhaps I should have left the family long ago. I could have been Prime Minister by now, or the Head of Shell. I say to the Gay Mother, ‘You’re like Mrs Hammond in “The Brothers”.’ You won’t remember it. It was a TV drama series in the 70s about a dynasty. Their family business was road haulage. It ran for several years. Mrs Hammond was the matriarch.

Fun-Fur Refused by the Gay Mother

Flappy Drapped Cardy Condemned by the Gay Mother - I Agree

Outstanding Modes Seen in York

Tuesday 26^th October 2010

I was wrong. Massivebury is not yet bulldozed.

It’s not too late to save it. People of the future must know, even if from behind a red rope slung across a doorway,  how exceptional Poor Little Rich Gays (exceptionally rich, that is) honed and smoothed and buffed an old country house into sleekness, poured money through the windows until it had acquired a disembodied, generalised air of taste that few could find fault with.  The house, originally, when inherited by Simon Limpney, the world-famous cat expert, was undistinguished, early 19^th century, full of damaged antique furniture, some good, blackened family portraits, old china and silver, all the usual junk; a lot of it had meant something to somebody once and overall it had ripened or even rotted, in Limpey’s view, into some kind of rambling, incoherent unity.

Under the new regime, Limpney did the choosing, while his partner, the head of landfill in this country or whatever, Robin Smallmeal, allotted twenty minutes to reviewing the schedules from the Sloane Street interior designer, crossed out a few items, then wrote a cheque.  The result – stunning. Every bed fitted with a heavy lined cover, matching scatter cushions, matching pelmets, matching curtains (£350,000 for curtains and bed dressing), acres of veal carpet, madly expensive country-look tiles for the kitchen, the better pieces of furniture absolutely glossy from the restorers, pert and ready for performance. Then the art: not even Smallmeal could compete with the Multis. £60,000 a work was beyond him when there was so much smoothed-out Farrow and Ball or ocre rag-rolled wall to cover. With his Stevenage background, he had an idea of hunting and dogs for a country house and Limpney found a set of 12 prints for £4000 which dealt with a corridor. Later he branched out into fishing and shooting. On Saturday mornings he and Limpney would return at lunch-time in the Bentley from the shops and reveal antiques and paintings acquired to fill up more spaces. But their average outlay during refurb was only about £5000 a month. The huge drawing room paintings of purple heather on the grouse moors (Smallmeal had once been) were only £10,000 the pair. The tapestry cushions for the drawing room sofa, which Limpney spent two and half hours selecting, were £80 each. You wouldn’t call him indecisive.  Absolute rightness takes time.

Now don’t tell me you wouldn’t lie down in front of the lurching ball and chain to save this glory for the Nation. Even if it could be turned into a hotel, it would be better than nothing.

Don't Let This be the Fate of Massivebury!

Spare Massivebury this Ruination!

Spare Massivebury this State!

Saturday 23^rd October 2010

All week I’ve been in Yorkshire. Perfectly extraordinary. Very few gays or indeed variegation of any kind. I’m starred at. The Gay Mother, 86, is with. She’s never seen York Minister. That’s why we’re here.

The first three nights we were at Hob Green, a country house hotel near Harrogate. I was dreading it. Only £100 a night including dinner and known to be 3 stars.

Three stars is somehow the worst. Almost better two.

My room was like being inside one of those M & S smoked salmon roulades (see graphs) but really and sadly I couldn’t complain. The bathroom had a window, was new, the downstairs drawing room was grand, the food perfectly good. I didn’t feel utterly abandoned and neglected. Remarkable really, for £100 a night.

In the dining room, it was hush and carpet as if a deathbed. You could hear every creak and slow heave of the clapped-out het couples’ last gasps at conversation.

But a Poor Little Rich Gay was not to be defeated. ‘What grasses are you planning for your borders next summer?’ I said to the Gay Mother. ‘If I’m spared….’ the Gay Mother began, as she usually does nowadays. Low and behold, at the next table, within seconds, a sudden new topic: ‘I never did find out about my miscanthus,’ the woman said (that’s a kind of grass, you see.) Well, we know where she was getting her inspiration from. I tried a few more times: the Late Queen Mother, fried eggs, the Pope… it wasn’t long before next door were chiming in. On the whole I thought it wise to avoid penis enlargement, as a topic.

But best of all was name-dropping. The Gay Mother had an excellent run on when Eleanor Bron came to Aunt Bestie’s funeral. Another night it was my turn, how I’ve met both the Fat Ladies.

Total silence at the neighbour table. They were agog.

Inside an M & S Smoked Salmon Roulade - My Hotel Room at Hob Green, Yorkshire

Bedroom Pink - My Hotel Room at Hob Green Yorkshire

Bathroom Tile Detail at Hob Green Yorkshire. What Would Bruce McBain Say?

Friday 22^nd October 2010

I have been lurking in the York Marks and Spencer and also Debenhams with the Gay Mother. She refused to try on a white fur coat by John Rocha.

Meanwhile, make sure you’re not near stairs, make sure you’re well supported…. because this could finish you off…

Massivebury is no more.

Gone, deposed of.

Loathsome Robin Smallmeal, head of landfill in this country or whatever, and his partner, the lovely tender, sensitive cat-expert, Simon Limpney, are down-sizing.

Now we truly know the meaning of the cuts. To think of that glorious country house gone! It was Massivebury that sparked a beautiful love, when Smallmeal happened to pass by in his Bentley as poor Limpney sat weeping outside the solicitors’ office where he had learned that his home, inherited at a young age, was nolonger viable. ‘There, there,’ said Smallmeal, ‘show me the figures.’ Limpney was wearing a lot of white at the time. It was the 80s.

After that there was nothing they wouldn’t do for Massivebury – new roof, new carpets and curtains, new lawns.  In the end everything was new. Under Smallmeal’s benign landfill wing, Limpney rose and rose in the cat world. His book, Cuddles with Kitty. How to be Close to Your Cat was a best-seller. But Massivebury was at the heart. A weekend invitation, issued at least four months in advance, was the highest honour. Nobody was tolerated who either bored or irritated in any degree. My own fate was sealed when I suggested that with these amazingly far-off dates you never knew that there wouldn’t be a clash with a good sale and I’d really rather come sooner.

Poor Little Rich Gays are hugely sensitive about their diaries. I should have known better.

We’ve not been on speakers for years.

After all that – Massivebury let down the wind! I can’t believe it.   Limpney’s had enough apparently, wants to go totally modern, big house too much trouble (and expense, I expect), can’t face slogging from one end to the other. I suppose Smallmeal’s pulled strings in the landfill world, because bits of Massivebury have been taken down and sold off to America and the residue has been bulldozed into a pit. Some sort of bungalow/hacienda arrangement is to rise in its place.

This is how Poor Little Rich Gays are, I’m afraid. Give everything to something until it’s time to kick it out of the way and start again.

Wednesday 20^th October 2010

By the way, I’m in Yorkshire with the Gay Mother. Much to tell. Hotel life.

I said to Fergus Strachan at the weekend, ‘You look ten years younger.’ He was furious. ‘There’s no effect at all until the second treatment.’

Fergus is the partner of Angus Willis, very learned, reads works of science and philosophy, is incredibly well-informed about all the undesirable regimes of the world; a lawyer.

Would such a person embark on dodgy facial work? From one who is an oncologist by day and has made a deep study of Dermarolla from a scientific and medical point of view?

Dermarolla is a process of rolling a spiked roller all over the face. It hurts hardly at all.  Even round the eyes it goes. After three treatments carried out at six-week intervals some cells are re-activated and your face is re-born. £700. You only need to top up once a year ever after.

By Christmas Fergus will be through and we will see the results.

This could be huge.

Tuesday 19^th October 2010

Yesterday was the 25^th Birthday of Joshua Baring, Poor Little Rich Gay of the future.

My words yesterday, on the other hand, (see posting:‘The World’s Most Uncompromising Poor Little Rich Gay Interior – Latest’) failed to re-create Angus Willis’s smoky party at his Tudor House in Hastings on Saturday. Poor Little Rich Gays dread whimsy. But the Tudor House feels old. It has an ancient air. You think the Tudors are there. It’s inescapable.  Fergus Strachan, Angus’s moisturising lawyer partner (update on his Dermarolla treatment soon), looked at the roaring open fire. ‘Imagine being burned alive in that,’ he said, remembering the punishment that previous occupants might have feared or met. It was a brilliant idea of Angus’s to have everything post-Tudor as it would have been when first installed except in its present reclaimed state – so round brown Bakelite light switches, terrible old Victorian lavs, tin baths, wheezy taps, bashed up blue enamel gas cooker – but this alone does not account for the powerful atmosphere of the house.

I stayed in a boutique B and B in Hastings, the Old Queen Glass Walking Stick or Old Glass Walking Stick Queen. Queens are responsible. ‘Did they say anything about me?’ Angus asked. He does not approve. ‘There was a very slight jolt of fear or resistance when I dropped your name,’ I said. He thinks they’re too draped and swagged or else impure and they probably don’t care for his tin baths. All the queens of Hastings are in competition to be First in Decor and Provision of Style including Food to the public on a paying basis. Angus will soon be opening a shop in the High Street.

It is true that in my room at the Old Queen Glass Walking Stick I was involved, as I had never thought to be again, with a tasselled curtain and its tasselled silk rope-tie. The lamp made out of an antler caught in my frockage and crashed to the floor. Angus wouldn’t stand for any knick-knackery like that. I showed him my room key which was also lavishly tasselled. ‘Let’s re-style it,’ he said, producing an ancient kitchen knife he had bought in a car boot sale. It was two foot long. ‘We could replace the tassel with the knife. The Old Glass Walking Stick Queens would love it.’

Tassel from Old Glass Walking Stick for the Chop to be Replaced by Knife

Monday 18^th October 2010

I’m just back from Hastings, where Angus Willis, one of our leading food stylists and writers, flung open his Tudor House for Hastings Bonfire Night, which for reasons not known is held on 16^th October. Some greatnesses attended.

You remember the Tudor House. We’ve heard a lot about it. Five years ago Angus acquired it and has been hacking it back from a reasonably modernised nooky cott to its original Tudor condition  – and beyond – ever since.

It’s still not finished but has now acquired the most extraordinary cupboard beds (see graphs) made out of salvaged groin oak from dismantled beach groins. Rough wood along with newly excavated crude stone floors give a unique outdoor feel indoors. On Saturday, for the party, it was also filled with smoke from the huge open fireplaces in one of which sat a vat of clam chowder kept piping hot by the wood embers.

I know I sound sneering. It’s easy to sneer. Poor Little Rich Gays don’t like beamy, cotty, nooky anyway. But the Tudor House is so staggeringly inconvenient, so utterly uncompromising in look, it works round to glory. Nothing like it will ever be seen again.

It was certainly good enough for the Green and Black’s lady. Oh yes, she was there, founder thereof, £8 million from the Cadbury’s sale, very expensive face and hair – keen on car boot sales apparently.

Let the graphs speak for themselves.

Cupboard Bed in Angus Willis's Tudor House in Hastings to be Slept in by Leading Figures in the Food World

More Cupboard Beds in Angus Willis's Tudor House

Cheeses by Angus Willis in Tin Bath for Saturday's Party

Whelk Stall in Angus Willis's Tudor House for Saturday's Party

Pears from a Car-boot Sale in Angus Willis's Tudor House for Saturday's Party

The Bathroom in Angus Willis's Tudor House in Hastings

The Hastings Bonfire Night Procession as seen from outside Angus Willis's Tudor House

Saturday 16^th October 2010

In Frieze Week too!

I’ve had my own mini-Frieze. I promised I’d tell you about it.

But you won’t believe the serendipity such as could only befall a Poor Little Rich Gay.

On Tuesday I happened to ask my friend Peter Acharya, who is a Prince or Brahmin of Trinidad, very grand, and works, in London, on the CEO’s floor, if he’d heard of an artist called Boscoe Holder, of that island – if you remember, the one I was urging you to Google earlier in the week. Robert Nevil did and loathed. But I love him.  His nude black men are astonishing. It’s not what you think. They are touchingly not good-looking, vulnerable but substantially present at the same time.

I saw his work first at Trenton’s gallery in the summer. There’s a romance attached of how Peter Doig and Chris Ofili, two utterly world artists, residents of Trinidad, chancing upon a wretched flogging off of a heap of masterpieces by the recently dead and forgotten Boscoe, were knocked down by the brilliance and put a call straight through to Trenton in London.

Now Trenton doesn’t sell anything for less than £10,000.

Well, it turned out that Peter had not only heard of Boscoe but was totally finger in pie, highest circles in Trin, top gays of course, knew his biographer, what’s more was on the phone to his gallerist in Trinidad at that every moment.

Peter spends a lot of time on the phone to Trinidad arranging for fine wares from his Princedom, good china and glass, to be shipped to London.

The cafe story can’t be entirely true. But the really astonishing thing, make sure you’re sitting down – an exhibition of Boscoe Holder had opened that day in Port of Spain! Here’s the weblink, Peter said.

Never has a person clicked with such frenzy. You could buy long distance, you see. And the prices were superb. Most of the important Boscoes had sold. But on page 8 ‘Tobago Wedding’ was still available.  Although not one of the important nude black men, it’s enchanting and disturbing.  By now it was late. I e-mailed the gallery and went, throbbing, to bed. On waking, I seized, at once, my I-Phone. A reply! I could have it for £540 plus £100 shipping. Still in bed, I sealed the deal.

I can’t believe it. World art for £500!

Now Peter has made private arrangements to scour Trinidad for more Boscoes. We must have one of his nude black men.

'Tobago Wedding' by Boscoe Holder

'Asleep' by Boscoe Holder: One of the Important Nudes but Already Sold

Wednesday 13^th October 2010

Frieze Art Fair

Well, the stock market rose 80 points, presumably on the massive swell and fatness of world-renowned Frieze Contemporary Art Fair, which opened today in London. I’ve been in that Zara suitlette all afternoon for my assault on what turned out to be the lesser private view. The collectors’ and VIP view was at 11 a.m, starring the Multis and Grayson Perry, of course (see graph below). The Blond Multi is off work for Frieze. He’s very driven, can’t bear not to be taking an exam of some kind, even if it’s Grade One Piano. So this is breathtaking.  Right now, he’s at the Ivy for Frieze.

But last night I was at Eddie Sedgewick’s studio with Robert Nevil. He has been adapting postcards (see graph below) and, for £45, you can chose from a selection – if you’re lucky enough to be invited to the viewing that is. They’re all remarkable. He’s done another series of the Senate House, that hideous building, but now re-seen in silver and purple. Those are £450 each.

Eddie’s taking an interest in a young man who makes sculpture out of dead salmon and vaginal shapes in neon which also look like people and talks sexy about Spanish girls and the effect of feeling their silicone implants.

So, the lives of artists – the making and continuing and complete lack of 9 to 5.

We agree with Lucian Freud: neglect is preferable. He knew it, for twenty years. Much better to be against rather than with, outside than in.

My own craving is to be minor.

Frieze Art Fair is something else. Air of menace. Some of these rich could be killers. Not the darling Multis, of course. I’m there with a rellie from Bath. In the street outside there’s an enormous black BMW whose odd white flashing lights, such as not seen on any other car,  seem to cause it to move off towards the picking-up place. We think it must have been its owners calling for it. Inside all the dealers, including Lady Helen Taylor (I was going to say, Granny: the Queen, but HM is not her granny but some sort of cousin. Tiresome) look vampirised, zombie-fied, shadow of former shelves from being charming to the rich. Although a lot of them are absolutely whackarama themselves but I suppose they’ve got to stay that way.

Almost all the wares on offer are utter rubbish. There’s just the tiniest slither of glory. We loved an Alice Neel portrait at the David Zwirner Gallery. $400,000. She was a communist in the 30s and only recognised late in life. All the same I don’t suppose she ever knew $400,000. I say as much to the glossy young man who relayed the price. He looked disgusted.

But let’s not be sour. As I said to my rellie, we’d pay $400,000, if we had it, to have in absolute possession a beautiful thing.  Better to be forking for that than machine guns.

Indeed I’m hardly one to speak. I’ve been acquiring, in my own small way, I’ve been having my own mini-Frieze. I’ll tell you all about it.

Eddie Sedgewick's Postcard with Collage - a Gem

Eddie Sedgewick's Beckham Stigmata Postcard

Eager Arrival Direct from Airport for 11am Frieze Collectors' Private View

Yes! It's Him! Being Graphed Being Graphed at Frieze

New Kusama

Tuesday 12th October 2010

My Jimmy Choo string hauled in. I can’t tell you the relief and delirious happiness.

I really mean it. I know you won’t believe me. I’ll think I’m mocking.

It’s the getting my way, the manoeuvring, the pitting against the odds…

Now I leave for Eddie Sedgewick’s Anti-Frieze Event.  For a price, he is offering intimate art works, drinks and canapes to a very select few.