Friday 26th December 2014

I was put in mind of Chekhov because Joshua Baring is to write a monograph on him for publication. Chekhov’s early play was called Ivanov. It is screamingly funny when they have a dance and caper about wildly, then someone says, once they’ve sat down, ‘Oh God we’re so bored!’ All the bits about the spoonful of gooseberry jam as a welcome snack for visitors ditto. But once Ivanov himself gets going with his suicidal thoughts one just longs for him to commit which at last at last he does, thank the Merciful.  Chekhov had to find a way of beating together comedy and tragedy. How on earth was it to be done? How could the impossible be achieved? As Val always says, What on earth did the first person who made mayonnaise think they were doing? Did they really imagine egg yolk and oil would bind? They will bind, but only just and not for long. Chekhov finally realised the fragile union of comedy and tragedy in Uncle Vanya, The Cherry Orchard and The Three Sisters.

So Poor Little Rich Gays in the coming year must yoke the disparate elements: Poor Little Rich Gays are poor but also rich. They will never be whole or complete, but they must not break down and be institutionalised or go on pills. A certain flashing lunacy is most attractive, provided one is not actually insane.  Nor must they ever be lovely or deeply caring, like all the people in the TV doc about Canterbury Cathedral (so C of E). Especially those damaged by Prep and Public with a certain warped attitude to the emotions must retain their astonishing harsh novel abruptness as they move towards greater humanity. Otherwise they will be merely nasty.

May every blessing pour down upon, Poor Little Rich Gays, here and throughout the World as you battle ever upwards with your impossible lives.

Wednesday 24th December 2014

My Christmas sermon is to be ‘How Chekhov made Mayonnaise’.

I’ve just been informed that Harry Rollo has said ‘Muriel Spark’ on Christmas Eve TV. Can we compare Larry Grayson’s reception of Arthur Marshall on ‘Larry Grayson’s Christmas Special’ (circa 1981): ‘Oh, Arthur, I’ve got you some custard creams,’ which was Twirly Godfrey’s favourite TV moment, apart from when the parrot head of the umbrella spoke to Mary Poppins (except that’s a film and not at Christmas).

On Saturday Rufus Pitman and Raj Zoroaster gave a lavish champagne reception in the course of which Rufus also appeared on TV with devastating effect. The other team had a score of nought for almost the whole programme – all because of Rufus knowing everything. ‘Catherine the Great’, he blasted well before Paxman had finished reading out the question. Rufus’s grasp of the Anhalt descent! So quick. I knew it too, having been at Anhalt only six months ago, but never would have flashed as Rufus did. He was whooping and shrieking throughout the broadcast. One of the other contestants on the enemy team he really can’t bear, so it was marvellous his triumph. The enemy appeared to have died on TV. Val would have been awfully good at this sort of thing – being a contestant, I mean, not dying on TV. Val, indeed, was launched on ‘Top of the Form.’

Otherwise the conversation was unusually lacking in frivolity and even confessional – age, death, addiction, Dolphin Square, The Royal Vauxhall Tavern etc. Lord Arrowby was charming and said he’d a huge bank of material of my forthcoming 4 hour piece to camera on Her Majesty. Heaven. I really love Lord Arrowby and he’s one of the few that dares to treat me as a normal person rather as Prince Philip is supposed to treat the Queen.

Then the next day I took my seat at C Garden and Tristan began. Anthony Mottram, ‘consultant’ of Prague and first met by me at Barrowborough in 1970 and with ever since apart from various estrangements, was present. Oh Tristan in this performance! Nina was beyond compare. We were riveted and deeply moved by the rare gift. The Tristan wasn’t perfect but Nina lifted everyone to a higher plane and one felt no querulous doubt. Completely enraptured, even though Anthony Mottram said at the end: ‘That’s me. The bright white part at the back.’ The stage was divided, you see, between the ‘light of day’ (or ‘reality’) and ‘night’, the crazy, intoxicating world of love and death inhabited by Tristan and Isolde. Fascinating. At the end, after five hours, I only wished for it to begin all over again.

And so, with Tristan, and a final intimate dinner at the Canada Water Cafe with the Multis, the pre-Christmas run reached a height beyond compare.

Then a greater height, if it can be imagined, when this afternoon my personal choice of Christmas music for this year, ‘The Shepherd’s Farewell’ by Berlioz, was given at King’s College as part of the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols. How did they know?

Monday 22nd December 2014

What a glory! I can’t begin to tell you my treasures. Lunch with the Australian branch of the Poor Little Rich Gays (possibly I might be a guest at Glyndebourniana next summer – the saving! Not paying!) Rufus Pitman and Raj Zoraster gave a party at which Rufus appeared on television, then yesterday Tristan at the Garden – not a dry eye – everyone in floods. One of the absolute greats in the House. I was with Anthony Mottram -oh yes, ‘Consultant’ of Prague. But last Thursday was Ed Jasper and Roland Mainflower’s traditional Christmas top-of-the-tree heaven – Matthew Bourne at the Sadlers’ Wells, then a buffet at their mansion. ‘Edward Scissorshands’ I’ve already mentioned. Back at the residence, Ed was in the pantry, glowing and getting through it very well although one lady guest had a quails egg actually inserted into her mouth. Somebody’s PA who had come because the somebody couldn’t, never before met by Ed, was invited to come on to the buffet but warned that some of the guests were a bit ‘rape-y.’ Ed confided in the pantry: he’s taken against ice-cubes. He took so much trouble to get one of those fridges that spews out ice-cubes. Then he went to a gorgeous hotel they did ice as shards in long glasses. So now he’s stuck with an ice-cube making machine but what he wants is shards. We commiserated over the agony of detail.

Ed’s met quite a few v. young people who brought fabulous new boyfriends. But they don’t fancy them apparently. The young barrister who lured me into a field in the middle of the night back in the summer was present: he wants more than anything to be a guest at an Embassy residence.

Friday 19th December 2014

Never, never have I known such a pre-Christmas. I’ve not lunched nor dined at home for a week. Very careful planning is called for to survive. Tomorrow once again I lunch out, then party in the evening. Sunday is Tristan, then the Ivy (now nothing: you can book on-line). Finally on Monday night, I’m at Canada Water Cafe for an intimate Christmas send-off. Every time I go to that place, I dine with the Head of something. Last time it was Head of a huge Publishing Group, next time it will be head of a huge BBC department. Such are the Multis’ connections.

Yesterday, I lunched at Zedel, went on to a private Carol Service at which ‘The Shepherds’ Farewell’ was given, my Christmas theme music for this year. In my special stall as honoured visitor (I was in the turquoise Prada mac) before the assembled throng I was in floods. In the evening was ‘Edward Scissorshands’ (about a man who has scissors for hands: why scissors? all the audience seemed to love him for his scissors. Is in a vestige of primary school and early scissor-work? You only have to bring scissors in and the audience goes mad. Edward Scissorhands only slightly cut someone once and then was terribly sorry… if he’d had chain-saws for hands, it would have been another matter, perhaps). Then afterwards at Ed Jasper’s and Roland Mainflower’s – of which much to tell.

On Wednesday I lunched at Caravan after the Gothic Exhib; Tuesday was a quiet private dinner, Monday was a day of rest after the journey North for the Multis’ pub lunch for the Photo Multi family, now an annual fixture. I drove Val up and the Photo Multi showed his kind side when he asked Val to have Christmas with them because he has nowhere to go. But really Val is in the most dreadful state, could hardly eat owing to shaking and on the way back threatened to be sick just in the place where there was nowhere to stop. And he’d only just finished a boiled sweet. I wonder if it wasn’t deliberate. Afterwards he complained about the men at the function ruling the air waves with their war memories and pronouncements about the Nation’s state. Well, they may not be our sort of people, but I saw only a certain clinging on. One must have some pity. Besides Wing-Commander ‘Feathers’ Bufton has quite a Google presence and did much to save the Nation by shooting down 126 enemy aircraft. This Multi-funded pub lunch is always a challenge to the styled and finished Poor Little Rich Gay pre-occupied with the best shape of ice-cube (you must also converse with young people about their hopes) but one we must meet, I feel.

Peter Acharya and Ned Czernowski’s party was easier of access. Peter and Ned curated superbly, on the one hand, some highly ornamental and whippy young gorgeousnesses, up to no good (we inspected the cupboard where last year some of them became frenzied) and, on the other, very grand ancien regime gays who did the Duchess of Windsor’s hair and took big parts in Coronation Street. Aunt Lavinia came over with Laura Malcolm and Matt Driver and was encouraged to bop by Bruce MacBain, an undertaking I thought quite dangerous considering that her knees are now by the King Edward VII Hospital for Officers. Laura said that black women were much better underwear models than white and Matt made a crisp marketing-type comment about something or other (I think the general state of affairs) which I’ve now forgotten sadly owing to failure. Unfortunate remarks were made by a person as we were setting out for the party, the trauma of which I fought all evening, not always successfully.

You’ll still be wanting to know how Chekhov made mayonnaise…

Monday 15th December 2014

I fear that I shall have to explain how Chekhov made mayonnaise sooner rather than later, for my Christmas garland, suddenly discovered late last week to be already hanging around my neck this Christmas with both past and future glories was very nearly ripped from me and trampled all over by some unfortunate remarks on Friday. But after two days, I’ve managed to rally and continue.

I began, it emerges, on the very 1st day of December when Dainty Lady TV were bidden to Kensington Palace for an evening reception.  Forging up the deserted and dark Diana Coffin driveway, I then was directed by a lone footman along an unending unpeopled gravel path to where another attendant indicated the front door of the Palace. Extraordinarily dark and solitary. Within the Palace the early 18th century apartments were also abandoned. Nobody there. Where was this party? At last, I heard voices and there was Lady Lucy Worsley of TV herself amidst the throng. The State apartments of KP are heavy and dark but the spirit of 18th century Christmas nevertheless prevailed, before the heavenly gloom and melancholy of the Victorians set in. Lady Worsley addressed the party and was very insistent in face to face conversation on coverage. ‘What are you doing for us?’ she demanded. Her address was about toilet arrangements for ladies in crinolines and the time a lady was refused permission by the King to leave the room so self-wee-ed on the spot. A Gay fancied me, according to Genevieve Suzy. He was from the Mirror. I don’t see how since he had a ‘partner’ with. Anyway, we amused yourselves by placing our heads above an crinoline dress and getting graphed thus (see below).

Then Genevieve ordered a taxi out of the looming darkness and solitude to the very door of the Palace. ‘We’re going to L’Escargot. It’s the Daily Mail weekend section party.’ So that’s what we did. Couldn’t hear a word. Genevieve got cross because I failed to register the Editor of the Daily Mail Weekend Section. Many faces were familiar, not just from the KP party but from by-line photos in the Daily Mail Weekend Section. Huge names, but I’d no idea who they were and no means of finding out owing to not being able to hear a word. Eventually Genevieve said, ‘You can go home now if you’re tired.’

Otherwise, there’s been Peter Acharya and Ned Czernowksi’s party on Friday, also attended by Aunt Lavinia who was urged to dance by Bruce MacBain despite two new half-knees and the other half of one on the way out. Then yesterday the Multis gave their annual mass pub lunch in the Midlands for friends and family. I drove Val up and he timed his announcement of acute biliousness to coincide perfectly with our reaching the raised section of the M4 near Chiswick where there is nowhere to stop. He’d only just finished a boiled sweet. I think it was wind.

Lady Worsley in Person, Describing 18th Century Toileting

The Kensington Palace State Apartments at Night

Trying on a Panier Frock: Man from the Mirror

Wallpaper Near the Toilets at KP

Outside the Front Door of KP: Magical Scene

Friday 12th December 2014

I’m afraid I’ve been remiss and invisible for some while. In fact I addressed a mass rally of Dainty Lady TV viewers on Tuesday, the terror of which wracked me for days. My subject was ‘What to do if the Queen arrives unexpectedly for Christmas.’ Barry Norman also spoke. Genevieve Suzy, who was present at the Rally, blanked my contribution so presumably there was something wrong with it but I don’t know what.

One must try to battle on. Yesterday, some middle-class people as a choir were singing in the atrium of the British Library and without warning Christmas began for me. Lilting, melancholy and long ago. Christmas is always in the past but Easter is thunderingly in the present. The glaring terror of the Resurrection. They were singing a piece which was familiar. I found out later it was ‘Adieux des Bergers a la famille sacre’ or ‘The Shepherds’ Farewell to the Holy Family’ from L’Enfance de Christ by Berlioz. Berlioz is one my blanked-out composers despite sitting through an entire Les Troyens. I’ve just not been overwhelmed. But now I am. ‘Adieux des Bergers’ at once has shaped Christmas 2014 for me without warning. It’s solemn, sentimental, very faintly discordant, wistful, sad and lovely.

How Chekhov made mayonnaise will have to wait. Another theme has struck. Years ago one struggled so mightily to have an important run-up to Christmas. Now I see that engagements have flooded in. One has been used last minute. Just as ‘Adieux des Bergers’ sprang from nowhere, so I find that a glittering garland of outstanding pre-Christmas events has occurred round my neck. Come back later to see the glory that has been and is to come.

Sunday 7th December 2014

As I’m sure you’ve heard Lord Arrowby is trying to save the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. It’s threatened by developers. This is his greatest mission, far greater at the moment than running the country, which he does during the day-time.

He begged me to attend David Hoyle’s final Terrorist Cabaret there, the week before last. It was the same day as I lunched at the Garrick Club, or perhaps the day before. Even so what scope! Is anyone going to re-develop the Garrick Club?

I squeezed into the packed but threatened Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Inside it’s all black with a hint of plush and gilt mirrors and not in the slightest bit finished. It might all have been flung together with poster paint. It’s a stage-set, the whole place. On the actual puppet-show-type performance platform, the Cabaret was already underway, in the form of a terrifying denouncement of money, power, business, capitalism, the whole modern world as commonly known, which is what endangers the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. The speaker was in a gown by Rick Owens (well, he sells at H Nicks) with face taken off and put back on again in the wrong places: David Hoyle himself, a witch (as he self-described). Nervous breakdown was surely in the offing and I believe periodically is achieved. A grim woman in a headscarf and sensible shoes was most reluctant to read her poem but eventually did. I seemed to have blanked from memory its precise subject but it was shocking beyond belief. Then appeared Dusty Edge, a pretty young man and wonderful support to the witch with wrong face apparently. Dusty was very knowing and sang an extended ballad about old people: ‘So you’ve had a fall/Well, what were you doing standing up at all’. It was unbelievably bitter and ironic and devastating. Dusty is interested in suicide and politics. Goodness knows where they all live, the witch, Dusty Edge and the Poet Lady, and what shopping they do. I was beginning to feel that they would tear me to shreds with their bare teeth if they were to know of my outlook and minor monied position. The witch sang some more songs, sometimes breaking down completely in the middle and shouting at the air-conditioning, which was a noisy fan. In between she praised the pulpating heart of humanity, the great queer identity and artistry and savaged middle-class people who imagine they’re edgy but phone Mummy to pick them up. The finale was her singing ‘Maybe One Day’ to the tune of an MRI scanning machine, which is the most awful noise as you probably know.

You might think this kind of thing is something of a throwback but there was a huge audience, much of it young. On the whole I do agree: let’s not be mainstream and established and normal and let Lord Arrowby, who throbs at the heart of the Establishment by day, lead the Royal Vauxhall Tavern and all it stands for to salvation.

Lord Arrowby in Evening Wear: a Mini-Dress by Raf Simons and trews by Dries in Blood-Orange

Lord Arrowby’s Mini-Dress by Raf Simons

David Hoyle, as a Pagan Witch, in a Gown by Rick Owens

Dusty Edge: Politics and Suicide

Dusty and David: Anti-Performance of a Song

David Painted a Picture of a Member of the Audience While Singing a Song. The Canvas was Held up by Porn Star, Ashley Ryder

Tuesday 2nd December 2014

Leaving the Garrick Club after a fork luncheon to launch Dartington Summer School, the doorman said, ‘I do like your coat.’ He meant my turquoise mac by Prada. ‘It’s a Prada fashion piece,’ I said, ‘from the Factory Shop in Italy but this season.’ Prince Dmitri Hersov made me buy it. I didn’t say that.  ‘Oh, I’ve been there,’ the doorman said. ‘I was going to buy a jumper but the assistants said it was for young people.’ ‘What an outrage!’ I said.

I took snoop pictures of the Garrick and spied a stuffy former neighbour in the dining room, but didn’t dare approach in a turquoise mac.

Later, entering Topman, a shop whippet said, ‘I do like your mac.’ ‘It’s a Prada fashion piece,’ I said, ‘from the Factory Shop in Italy but this season.’

What a day for my mac!

In the evening, with Prince Dmitri Hersov, I attended General Eisenhower’s granddaughter’s Private View. She’s done Indian miniatures, everyone of which was sold. Her home is Balmoral, in Ilex Gardens, Earlsy Courtsy. I went there once in the 80s and Robert Nevil returned the tricolored pasta in the kitchen, which was, as I recall, a curtained off area of the main and only room. I’ve never been able to look at tricoloured pasta since. Balmoral is hung with tartan though and General Eisenhower’s granddaughter was wearing some of Balmoral at her private view.  I don’t think she has much idea who anyone is, although all London knows her.

Ronnie Ronnie, the cabaret artiste, said, ‘I’m introducing Tittles.’ Tittles is a new toupée, conspicuous on Ronnie Ronnie’s head for being chestnut whereas his actual hair is blond, of course, but Tittles has a mind of her own. ‘Is she trimmed and shampoo-ed?’ I enquired. ‘Oh….’ said Ronnie Ronnie mysteriously.

Marmion Beaufleasaunce had no fresh news of Her Majesty but is now laying claim to the safety pin story.

My Prada Turquoise Mac Which has Stormed London

Fork Luncheon at the Garrick

Coat Corridor at the Garrick, Recalling School Coat Pegs Agreeably 

The Garrick: Main Hall

Ronnie Ronnie Introducing Tittles, A Toupée

This Luscious Piece, Ronnie Ronnie’s Tittles, Being Introduced

General Eisenhower’s Granddaughter’s Indian Miniatures

Friday 28th November 2014

I’m still reeling from last night. Lord Arrowby swayed me to the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. He was wearing a radical overblouse by Raf Simons and carmine trousers by Dries – on a Thursday, having come directly from running the country. But the artistes at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern are furious and want the whole fabric of society pulled down. You won’t believe it. It was terrifying. What an irony if my limo had pulled up outside to fetch me away afterwards.

Come back later for more – and graphs.

I revert for comfort to the exclusive evening viewing of the Rembrandt I undertook with Robert Nevil on Sunday. For £45 each, you could view with very few others, recalling the time I was taken by Harry Rollo’s mother, then a Trustee of the National Gallery for after-hours viewing of the Titian Exhib. The only other spectators were Bamber Gascoigne and his suite. I know little of Rembrandt but I’m enthralled by his riches to rags story. Was it luck that he didn’t plump up on admiration and being established? The late work (the Exhib is Rembrandt The Late Works) is searing. The viewer experiences a physical assault. Each portrait is a refraction of the sitter’s mind, terrifying, mysterious and uplifting. Even the less successful paintings, which Robert Nevil dismissed, have some vestige of this power. His patrons in Amsterdam couldn’t bear his ‘messy’ technique. They thought he was going blind. But never did anyone see more clearly. These portraits are paintings. You can see the paint, even when the paint exactly catches a fur collar or velvet cloth. In some cases the subjects are afflicted by the paint: the gouged, lurid paint that makes their faces is their suffering and accumulation of years. They are wrenched open, brought near to destruction by Art which also saves them.

When we reached the end, Robert Nevil expressed a wish to revise the Exhib. We surged back through the now-empty rooms to the beginning and then swept through putting labels on the works we wanted. RN liked a drawing (possibly an etching) of some trees that was so transporting. You felt you were there amongst 17th century Dutch trees.

Andrew Marr was robed and in the sanctuary i.e. present at the exclusive evening viewing of the Exhib. I forgot to mention that I saw Lady Freelove the day before in the National Portrait Gallery restaurant where I went to see Grayson Perry’s intermittent works showing our Nation. They are scattered through the existing galleries. Quite nice. Lady Freelove’s back hair looked a bit bashed about. I’m sure something can be done.

Tuesday 25th November 2014

Val has been very bad recently. Nothing is good enough. So awful to be sensible and settle for second best. In his own world he is King Emperor. What could be more important than his pinpoint in the universe? But he ought to have been a designer, he says. Being one of the greatest makers, one of the few left who can cut on the bias, who could transform Jasper’s sketches into living frocks, isn’t good enough. It’s a hard calling to be called to want things right and always better. Some (or many?) get the job done and are home by 5. Others can’t bear it and stay on until it’s right. There’s the danger then of madness or drink. ‘What a waste!’ people routinely say when told of Val’s latest descent. I don’t think so. Many other lives are infinitely less vivid although not riddled with drink.

I have a feeling of the last days with Val.

Lord Arrowby only just got to my dinner on Saturday (the rival dinner to the Brixton one) because he was judging an internal Government X-factor competition on a Saturday afternoon. It went on for hours, but was a great success, with a sandwich-trolley lady, not in youth’s first flush, from ‘Constitutional Affairs’, found to be the new Sue-Bo. He says he only eats in August, such is his dedication to affairs of state. Angus Willis too is mad for perfection, but has to survive.