Tuesday 12th October 2010

I can’t get it. Frieze Art Fair, Private View tomorrow afternoon at Regent’s Park. I e-mailed the Multis’ special e-mail, vip@frieze.com. But no room for me, Adrian Edge, not even with 2 million followers. Altogether I’ve pulled ten strings: at Deutsche Bank, who are sponsoring, at British Land who have 500 invitations, at Jimmy Choo; I’ve tried Lord Arrowby, who is going with the Minister and probably the Queen, knowing him, Joshua Baring who is in New York.

Another event also looms, Maggie Hambling again, at the Royal Academy on 28th October. My invitation has gone astray.I must hammer.

If only I could borrow £15,000, buy a Boscoe Holder and give to the Tate. Then there wouldn’t be this trouble – for a bit at least. Now I do recommend Boscoe Holder. Google to see his work. Go on, do it! Peter Doig and Chris Ofili have bought up all the work. It’s currently unavailable. All the same, wait and see.

Meanwhile I must not complain. Poor Little Rich Gays don’t complain. Last week, on the coat tails of the Multis I was lavished at Trenton’s gallery and dined at Shoreditch House in a huge gallery gala, having bought no art. The dinner was on the roof terrace, accessible only by lift. The Multis and I got in and were joined by three American heiresses who had arrived separately in black chauffed Mercedes – the big ones made of that purpose, arrival by chauffeur. The lift would not move. There was a terrible whiff of eating disorders. ‘You’re too heavy,’ one of the pashmina-ed greatnesses said to us, madly. But we were there first. The lift had been sprightly and primed for departure before they got in.  We drove them out. Above, the Multis chatted with Grayson Perry on the banquette by the pool (which didn’t have a proper edge: one false step and you’d have been in, £19,000 of frockage drenched as well as humiliation), who said £1 million for a studio was beyond him.

Sunday 10^th October 2010

Val, one of the very greatest Poor Little Rich Gays of all time, remains de-coupled from the bottle.

What a time we’re having! What a splendid little canter! Even future outings are spoken of, to Strawberry Hill, for example, which has been refurb.

Long may it last!

Val has been involved with a pop-up shop in Belgravia. He made some blinds. On my way to the Opening I saw a sign in the street: ‘Building a Better Belgravia’, it said (see graph below).

Now there’s a priority. I’ve always thought Belgravia should be better.

I was reunited with Peter Stairhead over the prosecco. Not seen for years. He’s done well. Now absolute head of PR at one of the chemical giants but far from well-behaved. Gorgeous muscular boyfriend or partner.

Then Val said he wanted to go to a concert. Someone called Artur Pizarro is playing the entire works of Chopin at St John’s Smith Square. Not all at once. You’d have had to show six times to get the lot. I suggested that we book the remaining four but Val said, Better not, we might not like it. So we took the one, as a try-out.

It was like Aunt Olive, who was desperate to leave her hideous Earlsy Courtsy mansion flat upon the death of her husband in 1970 but was bound by her hairdressing contract. She’d got six more months under the drier to get through.

We loved the concert. Artur Pizarro turned out to be well-known, winner of the Leeds Piano Competition no less. Played most intelligently and with earthiness which is unusual for Chopin. We’re going to take at least one of the remaining three perfs. You should too.

Val plays Chopin himself, or did at one time, on an enormous grand piano which occupies most of his bedroom. Val’s bed is more of a cot as a consequence.

Such a Priority, Don't you Think?

Friday 8^th October 2010

They bought that car, by the way. Laura Malcolm and her husband Matt Driver tomorrow go into Surrey to collect an Audi A4 3.0 TDI Quattro S line 240PS Technik, Multi-tronic 5dr Tip Auto Diesel Avant. They acquire by private sale from a stricken couple, crushed by their move from London’s central to Surrey.

Laura is exhilarated but fears a crash.

I’m just a little miffed. It’s rather more than I could afford. Matt doesn’t actually create ads. He manoeuvres in some far more important way behind the scenes. He’s absolutely global, hence salary larger than vile Smallmeal, head of landfill in this country or whatever.

But it is an estate car. And Matt couldn’t work out how to return the Street Car he’d hired last Sunday in order to gain Surrey for inspection of  the Avant, enraging Laura  on the end of her mobile phone as we crossed the road for lunch at my Aunt Lavinia’s – who happens to be a neighbour of Laura and Matt’s and now friend.

She was seething in the road. With frequency she depicts her husband in a poor light in her fiction.

Marvellous and right. Poor Little Rich Gays can’t bear Kissy, Kissy, Handy Holdy, Lovey Lovey, Coo-Coo.

The boon companion of your heart is your direst enemy, the only one fit for the challenge.

That’s how it is.

Wednesday 6th October 2010

I never told you about my birthday dinner at the Ivy. The bill had to be brought across the room in a wheelbarrow. The Photographer Multi gamma-rayed a social X-ray out of the bar area: his aim not just to occupy her table but to entirely re-locate it as well.  Matt Driver said that an Audi A4 Avant TDI 2.o (143PDS) was for ‘ordinary people.’

The next day I had my birthday treat outing. I went to Bluewater Shopping Centre.

Never again! I thought it was meant to be a cut above. Clinton cards, yoghurt-covered nut stall – I don’t think so. Horrible dead cream hue as well and the whole thing lodged in a chalk pit. No sumptuous vistas.

I went, if you recall, for the opening of the +J collection by Jil Sander at Uniqlo. But I didn’t like it. I don’t really like Jil Sander, now I think of it. Too plain. And even plainer in dubious impure wool.

Rule of buying cheap clothes – they’ve got  tend to the peculiar or extreme. Then the cheapness won’t show. Like my obscene miniature prep school cricket blazer from Topshop.

But at Zara I triumphed. I’m feeling completely confident about getting through until the January sales now.

My piercing insights into the season’s look: jackets are even shorter and more difficult than last year. They are nipped in, not an inch to move, absolutely figure-hugging. Trousers very tight. Waists still low, thank God. Edging still looking new. I also got a outdoor jacket with frogging suggested by zips. Cinched at the waist. £40 from Zara.

Suit from Zara £179

Cossack Jacket from Zara £40

Tuesday 5th October 2010

Have you heard? Robert Nevil was standing right there when it happened. He’d just been talking to the celebrity author of family blockbuster saga, Jonathan Franzen, about some rare literary thing.

Or so it seemed.

But he was Carabosse. That fab fairy who speaks for those excluded from parties everywhere. Poor Little Rich Gays are never excluded. That you must remember if you want to be one, which you do. Forge in. Wangle. If all else fails, curse.

An assailant leapt out of the bushes near the Serpentine Gallery, snatched the Franzen specs and deposited a ransom note for $100,000. He was later dragged out of the Serpentine itself by the Police. Alive, apparently.

It’s really true. I’m not making it up.

Must have been a Poor Little Rich Gay needing  $100,000 for an outfit.

It wasn’t Rufus Pitman. Who is gloriously, simultaneously the foundation of our cultural life without whom entire edifice would topple AND massive spanner in the works, able to reduce pompous old farts who chair committees to spluttering helplessness. Once he had his dogs eat all the canapes. So they were helpless, and starving.

The Actual Ransom Note from the Franzen Party

Monday 4th October 2010

On a Monday normal people are cowering at home.

But not Poor Little Rich Gays. The Multis, those astonishing property- and-company-owning tycoons are hammering at the coal-face. As is Lord Arrowby, that deeply governmental behind-the-scenes fixer, this evening being squired as arm candy (he’s got a fluffy side ) by Rufus Pitman, one of our leading arts figures,  prize-giver and receiver. Robert Nevil, author of the superlative History of the Pony Club, and Sebastian Archer, taste-shaper supreme in his publishing days of a nation’s taste (just back from extensive treatment in New York), are also at large.

They’ve all forged forth this evening, lunging out under fire in their various Mercedes.

Can you believe it? It’s only a week since the Multis stormed the Gauguin Opening at the Tate?

Now it’s the Tate again! The Gala for the Turner Prize AND the launch party at the Serpentine Gallery for Jonathan Franzen’s blockbuster, Freedom.

Rufus Pitman is to hurl both.

And what of me, Adrian Edge? I’m quietly at home, stitching tiny pieces of silk voile onto an Indian cutwork bedspread where it’s torn. And watching ‘Spooks’.

I’ve put a curse on the Franzen party. You’ve heard they had to pulp 80,000 copies? That was me, cursing. 4th Estate are my publishers. I’ve made them money, with my common mega-selling works. But not brainy enough for a literary function. Oh no!

Brains is nice at a function, as Joe Orton would have said.

Robert Nevil has been instructed to re-curse while actually there. I want a full Carabosse.

In the meanwhile, here are the graphs from the Tate. Fresh, straight from the oven. And look who’s there!  Our old friend…

Yes! She's there! At the Tate Gala for the Turner Prize

An Actual Work Surprisingly - at the Tate Gala for the Turner Prize

Friday 1st October 2010

Today is the 53rd birthday of me, Adrian Edge.

I received a text greeting from Anthony Mottram. Yes! speakers are resumed. There’s so much to tell and private jets might be involved.

I gained the world in the Tavistock Maternity Home where the Gay Mother complained of the food.

In an hour I leave for the Ivy. A quiet party of six foregathers. If only I had the loveliness to fork for twenty…

But I said I’d tell you about Grace Monaco’s gilt mac (see graph below, taken from an original copy of ‘Semana’ 2nd October 1982), after the exhibition of her old frocks at the V and A.

It wasn’t there.

In October 1982, I watched Grace Monaco’s funeral on an ancient black and white TV in the wrong one-night-cheap Madrid hotel – having dragged or been dragged, having ‘met someone’. Simultaneously I was, of course, devouring the magazines, ‘Semana’ and ‘iHola!’, which were wall-to-wall Grace Monaco. Except when The Colbys was on on Wednesdays and Dynasty on Fridays, I don’t think I was ever more galvanised in the 80s.

But there were glimmerings of grandeur. Poor Little Rich Gays were on the inside, even then. I knew someone who knew someone who was going to marry the Comte de Paris – who knew the Monacos.  I said, ‘They’ll be wondering what to do with her things. Get me that gilt mac!’

If people showed 80s-type arse, I’d always say, ‘Grace Monaco….such an intimate friend….I haven’t got over it, you know.’

Worked a treat.

You too could have been intimate with a modern dead greatness – such as Michael Jackson or Andy Warhol.

In November of 1982 the saddest ever announcement appeared in The Times. It was headed ‘Monaco National Day.’ ‘Monaco National Day, usually held on November 17th, will not this year take place.’

It does’t matter that, if you actually go to Monaco, it’s ghastly.

Grace Monaco's Gilt Mac

Grace Monaco with Self-Made Collage and Matching Luncheon Frock

Wednesday 29th September 2010

To me always Grace Monaco, not Grace Kelly.

Last week, with Laura Malcolm and Esmé Manning, I toured the display of her gowns, day-wear, bags, shoes and gloves at the V and A. Just in time, before it closed. Grace Kelly: Style Icon it was called. Maybe you were there.

What can Poor Little Rich Gays learn?

Esmé and Laura were less than reverent. They reeled at a blue swirly floaty chiffon kaftan thing by Yves Saint Laurent circa 1975. ‘We had a breakfast set like that,’ Esmé said of another YSL creation. Cruella de Vil- like, it was one half a honey-beige blanket, the other a dark brown blanket. Bat-wing sleeves. I tried to graph it but the camera refused.

All the YSL frockage was hideous, in fact – dowdy and middle-aged.

Grace Monaco was designer-led, you see. In the 50s, in the New Look, by Dior, she was stunning. After her death (who would have thought it? To have tumbled off the corniche like that) she was pipped for the Sainthood. But the Vatican said she had changed her look too often, was too much a follower of fashion. If, on the other hand, her present Majesty of England were to apply….

So, there you have it. The great dilemma of frockage. Do you, like those glorious company-and-property-owning tycoons and blazing Poor Little Rich Gays, the Multis, or top accountant, Prince Dmitri Hersov, build your own look out of cufflinks, outrageous shirts, unimaginable shoes and hand-made suits in azure corduroy? And stick to it. Or do you, like me, fight against decay and death, make it new, make it new, even in advanced middle-age, with ever new modes, all the latest looks crammed on?

I must tell you about Grace Monaco’s gilt mac – and her collage. I’ve had my old Hello magazines out, from the days when it was in Spanish.

Come back tomorrow.

A Sheath Dress Worn by Grace Monaco in 1970 and Repeated for a Snowdon Shoot in 1972

A Less Successful Gown Worn by Grace Monaco

Grace Monaco's Matching Clucks

THE GAUGUIN PRIVATE VIEW AT TATE MODERN

Rear View of Arrival Area at Tonight's Gauguin Private View - Skirts Dresses and Footwear

An Actual Gauguin Exclusively Viewed

Greatnesses Leave the View. Do Not Be Deceived by Their Ordinary Appearance

Even Greatnesses Seem Small Sometimes

Tuesday 28th September 2010

The Multis, those property-and-company-owning tycoons, have condemned Cap Ferrat. They will never go there again. Too built-up. Too many claiming to be rich.

Tonight, they recover at the  Tate Modern Private View for the Gauguin Show. Their own artist, Beatrice Cantor, is the Gauguin of today.