Tuesday 28th September 2010

Jil Sander’s done a range for Uniqlo. It’s called +J. Available exclusively from the Bluewater branch of Uniqlo from this coming Saturday 2nd October. Other branches from October 14th.

Can’t possibily wait that long.

Be there! At Bluewater! Saturday morning, at the crack…. See it as the Private View, the exclusive Breakfast Tour…

The Telegraph alerted me yesterday.
http://fashion.telegraph.co.uk/columns/hilary-alexander/TMG8022799/Jil-Sander-goes-back-into-battle-with-Uniqlo.html

The clothes look superb. Purring soft men’s jacket in brown wool for £129.99.

Could fill the gap until the January sales.

Good wool jacket by Jil Sander for Uniqlo £129.99. I Want It!

Sunday 26th September 2010

Yesterday was the birthday of Angus Willis, leading food writer, food stylist, food photographer and Poor Little Rich Gay.

I can’t remember where we are with the Ivy? I crave it for my birthday on Friday 1st October, this coming.

But how to get a table for six at such short notice? In one of the most booked restaurants in the world?

Robert Nevil  pulled strings, through his fan there of his History of the Pony Club, but his string only wrenched in the waiting list.

Or so it seemed – until this morning.

I thought: there are always more strings to pull and pull them I will. That’s the Poor Little Rich Gay way.  I called Conor Cadoux in Brussels where he is running the European Parliament possibly. Once he was weekly in the Ivy, regarded as a huge asset there, owing to his large bar bill and scandalous wit. But he said his efficacy has declined, he’s been too long away from London.

Gays run the Ivy, of course, as they do most things.

It helps.

There was nothing for it – and why not? Why not call them myself? It was loathsome Robin Smallmeal, head of landfill in this country or whatever, who advised me: ‘Always announce yourself when telephoning the Ivy before demanding.’ So I said, ‘This is Adrian Edge speaking. I’m coming in on Friday. We’ll be six.’

You know what they do? They Google you. There’s a pause on the line while they do it. Then they come back and say, ‘Are you an 18th Century landscape gardener?’

The thing is: It worked!

Yes, I’m known at the Ivy after all. On the list. Oh yes! ‘Only too happy to help, sir’. Reservations shifted round even to accommodate.

You too could be known at the Ivy in this manner. If you insist that you’re someone for long enough, then you will be!

The minute I’d hung up, you won’t believe it, but Robert Nevil was texting to say his string had come in too! So massive double victory for Poor Little Rich Gays at the Ivy.

But, awful thought, we’ve heard about it before….kind commentators have mentioned it only this week – upstairs at the Ivy, there’s the Ivy Club. It’s new-ish. Membership by invitation. Sol Weideinwar is in.

We must be brave. We must face the horrible truth. That’s where all the grandeur and greatness who used to make the Ivy completely impenetrable have gone.

How to get in? How to get up those stairs? What to do once there?

On the other hand, were I the person I’d really like to be –  driver, car at the door, fresh £19,000 outfit every day, Ivy Club – I’d be universally despised.

Isn’t it difficult?

Friday 24th September 2010

Yes! The Multis took off but at midnight after a four-hour delay and gained Nice and a two-hour queue for taxis at 3.03 am this morning.

Their only hope now, as a kind commentator suggests, is to dispense with scheduled services altogether and carve their own sky routes.

The Photographer Multi, who loves a car to roar and screech at his command, might learn to fly and, foot slammed to the cockpit floor, accelerate mightily through the air hurling all opposition aside. The Blond Multi could co, possibly in a Soho version of an early flying outfit.

Think of the fun! ‘Doors to manual’ ‘Cabin crew prepare for take-off’. But no Captain Sensible-Sounding Name (did you know that all pilots are issued with A Sensible-Sounding Name such as Fairclough, Brown, Maindoor, Grey, Surrey? Flashman, Ashburner, Codling, Savage, Crump,Hook, Crow wouldn’t do at all). No, it would be the Multis at the wheel, cascading down the runway, the Blond Multi, who’s not at all practical, fumbling with charts and getting a light improving slap from the PM as they achieve lift-off.

Anyway, normal service has more or less been resumed at the Cap although the Photographer Multi finds the area rather built-up and he doesn’t like the mountains crowding round. For dinner they have had a superbly judged cheese at exactly the right room temperature. You remember in Umbria sparks flew in the vicinity of the fridge over the question of whether the cheese out or in.

The Scene at Port de St Jean Cap Ferrat at 5 a.m this Morning When the Multis Gained from London Six Hours Late

The Wounds of Delay Begin to Heal - the Multis Manage a Modest Lunch

The Multis Almost Fully Recovered - An Outstanding Cheese Course

The Multis Completely Back to Normal - Is it a '2' or a '3'?

Thursday 23rd September 2010

I don’t think I’ve had less outfit satisfaction in years.

It was zero in fact.

Poor Little Rich Gays should rate their outfit satisfaction out of ten. No outfit should be unrated.Results must be recorded for posterity. This is a daily duty.

In my posting for 11th September (‘What can Poor Little Rich Gays Burn?’) I condemned the cream chinos and blue business shirt combination when offered as a leisure outfit. But by a terrible wrench of Fate I’ve been in it myself.  Somehow I’ve been trapped into yoking  my Zara cream slacks (not exactly chinos, I know) with dark shirts for no better reason than that nothing else would go – when a look a cut above beach is called for.

Perhaps this is a punishment for condemning.

Then at lunch I took three courses including banoffi pie which I can’t resist and ended up with no less than a paunch. At the Designer Warehouse Sale in the afternoon (Thane Villas: but I was disillusioned. Acres of Elton John’s old clothes on offer, including stains) I was near to being discontinued.

I can’t make these cream slacks work. Val said when I regaled him over the telephone, ‘They’re not town wear.’  Maybe that’s it. Cream slacks just can’t be worn with anything other than a short-sheeved shirt not tucked in.  They can’t be formal.

Maybe also they shouldn’t be by Zara.

If outfit faith begins to go from observation of the actual outfit, it will surely plunge to oblivion if the label’s dodgy.

But my suffering is nothing to that of the Multis. Can you imagine, for the third time their attempt at a simple mini-break has been foiled by strikes! Although, now, as we speak, they have boarded but not taken off. They were supposed to mount the air this morning from City Airport for the Voile d’Or at Cap Ferrat but French air strikes forced them into a 8.45pm departure from Heathrow. That flight is now possibly taking off at midnight and gaining Nice at 2.50 in the morning.

Still they might not gain the Cap. And if they do they’ll be too shattered to face breakfast service. And they’re paying 700 euros a night so not to be in the room milking it for all it’s worth will be anguish.

Come back to tomorrow! Will the Multis Gain the Cap?

Zero-rated Outfit

The Multis' Long Wait to Board This Evening for Nice

The Multis Still Waiting to Board for Nice

The Multis' Still Still Waiting to Board for Nice

Boarding at Last but Take-Off Still Uncertain

Wednesday 22nd September 2010

Will Robert Nevil be able to book the Ivy for my birthday next Friday?

The suspense is killing.

You remember he alone of all the Poor Little Rich Gays has privileged access even though not a mogul like Smallmeal or Matt Driver or Sol Weideinwar on £450, 000 a year.

Last winter he was taken to the Ivy by some rich book person. It turned out that the maitre d’ was a huge fan of RN’s history of the Pony Club. They were instant ‘mates’ (actually Poor Little Rich Gays don’t have ‘mates’) and a special reservations phone number was conferred.

All the same, we’ve left it late. Table for 8. On a Friday.

Will it happen?

Tuesday 21^st September 2010

On Saturday the Gay Mother and I limo-ed one hundred and twenty miles each way to a wedding.  £350 for the day. My dream, as you know, is car and driver. I was living the dream, one which many other Poor Little Rich Gays crave. It was an Audi A8 long-wheel base, pearl leather interior, bottled water on offer, several engines, normally the conveyance of High Court Judges and Government Ministers. I wonder if leading Poor Little Rich Gay and mysterious fixer in Gov. circs, Lord Arrowby, has ever been installed.

Where is Lord Arrowby? Not seen nor heard of for months.

But this is the Poor Little Rich Gay way – they’re busy, creating, getting on, running a full diary, running the country.

The Gay Mother, 86, wore a brooch on her red jacket of boiled wool. Underneath her shirt was purple. She resembled a fuchsia.

If you ever get old, wear bright colours. Keep going.

The brooch was my idea. She appears to have put away all her jewellery. But I insisted and it was a big hit at the wedding. People have never seen the like. It’s a miniature of a sultry Indian lady in a frame of spikes with tiny rubies or pearls at the end of each.

The limo purred along. Of course, the driver has to obey the speed limits and there was a traffic jam. We were forced onto obscure, slow roads. I had little sense of onlookers. What were we going to do about lunch and toilets before the wedding at 2? We stopped at a Co-op service station. No toilets but a filthy sandwich. The Gay Mother was worried about crumbs on the limo floor. The driver suggested toilets in a Kwik-fit. Would the Gay Mother be quick enough? It was getting rather fraught. In fact I had hysterics. We gained the wedding with only ten minutes to spare. Afterwards, purring up to the reception, the limo was at walking pace. I thought, Is the driver getting revenge for my hysterics? We said, ‘We’ll leave at six’ but six came and still no speeches. I rush out to grovel to the driver. An hour later we rather dash from the wedding, after the speeches, so worried about keeping the driver waiting.

We do at least thunder back home at 90 miles an hour.

But car and driver is going to take some practice, I can see.

Wednesday 15th September 2010

I’ve been thinking – does he belong? George Michael, I mean, who has been confined to basic decor for driving  into the Hampstead branch of Snappy Snaps while high or low or both.

And is this a first? Is GM the first Poor Little Rich Gay, if that is what he is, to be housed in this manner, with toilet in the living area? Quite a few PLRGs hover on the borders of legality, have been known to telephone from call boxes to newspapers with insider information,  but that’s another matter.

He is, of course, in a number of ways, just a weensy bit common.

I turned to the Daily Mail for guidance.  ‘Wake up call,’ it went, ‘habit of cruising…trolley dolly boyfriend humiliated…emerged from some bushes….will probably make a joke of it….. next video will be glitzy prison scene….appallingly selfish behaviour… stoned for 15 hours a day…. cheeky grin… trolley dolly boyfriend humiliated…law unto himself…wake up call…..’

I began to wonder and feel drawn.  We can’t have the Daily Mail carrying on like this.Snappy Snaps, for a start – surely asking to be driven into. And it was the Hampstead branch.

No, I think Utter Glory, immediate special appointment to the Poor Little Rich Gays; most of the Hets would be off in the bushes given the chance. Hypocrites. ‘I gave Kenny (that’s the trolley dolly) a million pounds for our anniversary, so he can hardly complain about what I get up to….’ Brazen public statements, agreeable level of nonsense, probably a tease, two fingers up really, but they don’t notice. Making the best of the muck, subsuming it into video…

I’m going straight round to Pentonville Prison. It’s only a few streets away from my Official Home, you know. I’ll hand a note in: ‘Stop sobbing in your cell, George Michael; you’re a Poor Little Rich Gay now.’

Tuesday 14th September 2010

On Sunday  I went with Robert Nevil, author of the History of the Pony Club among other works, to Great Dixter.  On the face of it, RN is one of our less particular Poor Little Rich Gays. He has been known to buy a chicken for less than £35. He can even walk straight past Trenton’s art gallery and fail to spend £65,000.

But his views on ironing knocked me down.

We were early for Dixter so embraced nearby  Bateman’s, former home of Rudyard Kipling. Have you heard of him? He wasn’t Indian as I had always thought but had a lot of money from writing. Superb. The money, I mean. In the frightful Rose Garden we craved incendiary devices, but we loved the house, despite its being nooky-wooky-woody-cotty-beamy. It is a 17th century manor, excellent taste, nothing matching. I’ve told Angus Willis to rush round and get ideas for his neighbouring Hastings Tudor House. In the dining room (only chairs for 8) Robert and I assume that in one hundred years’ time the public will be peering into our own rooms from behind a silk rope in the same fashion. ‘This is where they sat in the afternoons’, ‘This is where the risotto was hurled.’ ‘This is where they applied their moisturiser.’ ‘Here are the texts from world-famous Poor Little Rich Gays thanking for dinner.’

Later our topic was Lithuanian cleaning women for some reason. Perhaps it was the house-theme. Robert’s stands in the bath to clean it, ankle-deep in water. She vacs the brickwork outside, but breaks everything. We progressed to the Polish ironing lady. ‘I told her to put the shirts on hangers and button them up. I showed her how to put them in the wardrobe the right way round, all the collars facing the same way. When I came back, had she done as asked? Had she, buffalo!’

I’m reeling. ‘Button them up‘? Why? Robert Nevil nearly auto-destructs on the spot. ‘For Goodness sake, Adrian Edge. Otherwise they’ll crease. Surely….’

There’s a ghastly silence in which looms horror. You could have heard the soup sitting in its bowl had there been any. I’m 53 years old on 1st October and it’s never even crossed my mind. Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why wasn’t I saved?

I never knew you had to button them up. Never knew you had to button up newly ironed shirts after putting them on a hanger and before putting them in the wardrobe.

By the way, Robert’s History of the Pony Club was for sale in the shop at Bateman’s. We stood beside it feeling utterly insider and above.

Decrepit, Common Rose-Garden at Bateman's, Which Narrowly Escaped Incineration by Robert Nevil and Adrian Edge on Sunday

Sunday 12th September 2010

I ran into Fergus Strachan in the street near Waitrose. Not seen for months. You remember him: it was 6.30; he was on the way back from lawyering. Massive upper body, light, exquisite make-up. His partner, Angus Willis, is one of our leading food writers and stylists, also responsible for the astonishing Tudor House at Hastings (see ‘A Classic Poor Little Rich Gay Weekend Away’ 1st December 2009 and ‘The Highest Queenaria Yet Known: Angus Willis’s Epic Three-Year Renovations in Hastings’ 3rd December 2009).

I forgot to mention Val, that magnificent, tormented costume-maker and upholsterer, whose cutting on the bias is unrivalled, somehow pitched up in Hastings recently and found that it was open day at the Tudor House. He knows Fergus and Angus anyway because all Poor Little Rich Gays know each other, even when they don’t know that they do. He said to Fergus, apres tour, ‘It’ll be very nice when you got  fitted carpets and a three-piece suite.’ Which was just a little cruel. The Tudor House is very demanding: it’s been stripped completely back;  it’s got Tudor baths and Tudor electricity. A hard wooden settle is not beyond the bounds of  possibility, should it ever progress to no builders and furniture. Val proposes to make ruffs for Fergus and Angus to wear en maison.

But I digress: Fergus told me all about his face – when I met him in the street. It’s being re-done. By an oncologist with a side-line in radical face work. Three treatments six weeks apart.  £750. Full facial anaethesia is achieved, then a spiked roller is worked thoroughly over the numbed skin resulting in deep-level re-activation and build-up of connective tissue. Only one day off work necessary to recover.

By Christmas we should be seeing results. Let’s look forward. Fergus Strachan will be even more gorgeous. The treatment is called Dermarola. The alternative is Laser Skin Resurfacing, requiring a week off work.

Saturday 11th September 2010

Pastor Jones is not going to burn the Koran apparently. But what should Poor Little Rich Gays burn? We too are a rare cult of some four million, although throbbing at the centre of things, dripping with insider knowledge,  rather more the Dove World Outreach Centre of Gainesville, Florida.

We must burn something. So we can go to the White House.  Or have the White House come to us.

Then, miracle, Gulietta Bambino leaves a comment (See Comments on ‘Landmark Birthday? New Ways to Gain Unsurpassed Gala Glory?’ 8th September 2010) ‘Is Welcome Mat management very PLRG or not?’

Of course, that’s it. That’s how you manage a Welcome Mat. You set it on fire, especially if it’s someone else’s. After that, you can advance to: toilets that are not cantilevered and without concealed cistern, cream chinos worn with blue business shirt, often with black shoes, when offered as leisure outfit, all variegated plants, estate cars, supermarket grooming products, German food, gluvine, cheap loo paper that makes dust, perfumes you don’t like.