Sunday 27th April 2014

Like the Royal Year, so the Poor Little Rich Gay Year makes its inexorable progress, unchanging but with variations. Tulips, followed by Glyndebourniana, followed by Normandy, then the crawl towards Tuscany, then the return to the Capital to begin being Queen Mary all over again.

Tulips throb at the core of Poor Little Rich Gay life. The first flower of importance in the gardening year. Daffodils, although delightful, don’t count. They are charming but somehow idiotic, moronically huddling together like sheep. The tulip, on the other hand, is impossible, wilful and solitary. Their foliage means that they are constitutionally incapable of cosy-ing up to other tulips. The specimens grown today are some of the most artificial of all flowers. A wild daffodil is merely a little smaller and with less colour range that a cultivated one. But a wild tulip might well be thought by one who knew no better to be something else altogether.

This year I had a concept. I wouldn’t have contrasting tulips, I’d have them all the same but different varieties. In my front area I placed ‘Apricot Beauty’, ‘Cairo’ and ‘Princess Irene’. They were all supposed to be brown essentially. But I had forgotten that Apricot Beauty isn’t apricot at all. It’s pink. I forget this every year.

So here is my front area of brown tulips. ‘Cairo’, by the way, was recommended by Harry Rollo’s mother.

Monday 21st April 2014

Do you notice how all Popes have the same die-away Holy voice, especially at Easter?

The Lord is Risen. He died that we might be redeemed of our Sins. For Poor Little Rich Gays there is hope that after a life-time of agony others would not endure five minutes, trying to get the home right, fighting for clothes, face and hair not to mention career supremacy, to reshape the World, we can rest at last, brought ‘safe through Jordan to our home above.’

Will Heaven be like a Tuscan villa holiday? If so, who will be in charge? Who will do the seating plan at lunchtime and style the dinner table? Will we like it? Will there be no scenes over the placing of candles?

Meanwhile, on this Earth, Poor Little Rich Gays are too precious, too special, too fragile, too tightly-coiled ever to be criticised. So how are they to be cleansed of their Sins? Most were wounded by Prep and Public or elsewhere into taking the stony upward path, alone essentially, to a higher and different life. The world as it is does not satisfy Poor Little Rich Gays. It must be made again. Poor Little Rich Gays endure and suffer pain for years as others would not stand for one minute.

But they must not be monsters. They must not be without pity or kindness of any kind. They must not grow shrivelled and rigid. Fossilisation is the greatest danger for the Poor Little Rich Gay. Even the Poor Little Rich Gay can be humble and begin to grow again, perhaps on a quiet evening at home when nobody is looking.

Saturday 19th April 2014

What a message for Easter! Rudi Patterson died last year. A painter, who painted and painted despite lack of world attention and lived as he wished in Notting Hill, he was an intimate friend of Royston King, who runs London’s heritage. A retrospective exhibition has been arranged at Leighton House by Royston and others. Do go and see it. It’s on now. The paintings are delightful.

Moira Stuart opened the exhib. Oh yes! She was not to be graphed having been up since 4 a.m. but she looked and sounded superb. Rudi arrived from Jamaica in the 60s. He wished to act. He was a model for Mr Fish. He had a part in Z Cars. Then, as a result of misfortune, he turned to painting. I never met Rudi. In fact I’d never heard of him before. But I love the whole idea of him and in my mind has formed a vision of him, not giving a damn in essence, living rackety and free in Notting Hill with paintings pouring out. There were a number of exhibitions and the flat was found to be stacked with work after this death. Moira said Rudi was a great life-enhancer which may be a cliché but is true of few. Only a few shake off the shackles of reputation and grandeur in pursuit of an audience.

I mingled at the PV after the speeches knowing no-one. But soon I was known. The Jamaican Gays were of a certain age but still sensational. Leee John was present. A huge star apparently of a group called ‘Imagination’. Awfully charming. Another had been in ‘Hair’. A Jamaican hatter was in Moschino from the 80s. He has taken to telephoning me. I’m not sure whether he wants coverage on Dainty Lady TV or something else. Talk was dirty and old-school. These Gays have not been modernised.  Gay Marriage they don’t like.  They don’t want respectability.

Hurrah!

Rudi seemed to have many nephews, improbably young, since he passed at 80. One was in a bowler hat.

Rudi Patterson in his Day: Modelling on the King’s Road in the 60s

One of Rudi’s Paintings

A Rare Winter Picture by Rudi

Moira Opens the Exhib in Greatness

Moschino Suit from the 80s on Jamaican Hatter

He was in ‘Hair’ and is Now Recording a Song Album

One of Rudi’s Nephews

Leee John: So Charming and with Three ‘e’s

Monday 14th April 2014

Genevieve Suzy phoned at 3pm and said ‘You must be there by 6. There’s to be a full tour, including the Vaults, led by the Governor himself.’

We were to penetrate to the heart of England. I wore my Zara blue plastic jackette and Topman tweedish slacks. In the stony vestibule, a man in ancient pink costume, with medals, tried to shoo us away. But no, ‘We’re here for the event.’ We sweep into a bunker and collect our labels. No other Press, I see. Dainty Lady TV the only media present. Otherwise it’s ‘Mike Codd, Dave’s Fitters plc’ or ‘Colin Pegg, Hardline Flooring’. Drinks are not particularly forthcoming. We wonder what to do but not for long. Genevieve decides to investigate. We bowl up to a woman and read her label. ‘You’re the Chief Cashier!’ Genevieve declares. The woman looks alarmed. ‘She sits there all day signing the notes,’ somebody quips. ‘A woman in this rôle would be perfect for Dainty Lady TV,’ says Genevieve Suzy.  But there’s a certain flint with the anxiety of the Chief Cashier. Plainly she does not issue notes willy-nilly.

We are ushered through to the exhibition space, whose refurbishment is to be opened at the function. Still no sign of the main man. We quiver on the verge of disappointment, as always when a greatness is expected, but keep going with investigative conversation with Head of Security, who is probably an ex-policeman. ‘We advise businesses on what to look for but there are certain things only we know about.’ The Hall is vaulted. Genevieve whispers about the Gold Bars. Suddenly there is a bevy. A ring of people are moving into view. To keep the ring, some of them have to walk backwards and have a trotting motion to avoid falling over. But they move firmly towards the podium. There, we behold him at last, within the protective escort, the Governor himself, Martha Carney, our Nation’s banker. Head of Communications makes the first speech. It turns out later Genevieve Suzy’s husband was at Eton with him. He is also thought to be a Deputy-Governor. But the Governor is the one, smaller than expected and older, but with timeless grooming to evoke the stability of a Central Bank. The speeches over, Genevieve says to Head of Communications, ‘We’d like to see the Gold Bars.’ He is most regretful, in old-school gentleman manner, but offers a tour of the State rooms instead. Privately we are swept upstairs. Faces passed in corridors are aghast. Who are these people with Head of Communications? We are shown the room where they set the Interest Rate and another ballroom-type room out of a Stately. I am caught by Head of Communications taking snoop graphs. ‘It’s quite all right,’ he says, ‘you can take pictures.’ We regain the party passing more stunned faces. By now drinks and canapés are pumping out at a rate of 3 a minute. We meet Head of Maintenance who has thousands of light bulbs to worry about and then, oh then we are in the actual presence. Yes! in actual confab with the Governor of England’s Bank. He gives us his last 7 minutes at the party, before the ring reformed to escort him forth. He gave us his last Rollo. Our topics: his time at UBS, saved by the Swiss Central Bank – so the utter certainty of Central Banks. Her Majesty the Queen. I tell him my private stories of her worries over the cost of her frocks. ‘Thank you for your enormous bill,’ she wrote to Hardy Amies, ‘which it will take some time to pay.’ He has only had one audience of Her Majesty, he confesses. We move on to toxic debt which I advise him has not turned out so toxic in all cases.

Then, with great waves of grace, but on the dot, for his car cannot wait nor his next function, the Governor of the Bank of England departed.

Head of Communications Opens the Proceedings

Yes! Yes! Yes! Sir Carney Indeed

Here They Actually Sit and Set the Interest Rates

A Reception Hall Within the Bank

A Cosy Corner for Resting from Banking at the Bank

Carpet Interest for When Bored During an Interest-Rate Setting Meeting

Wednesday 9th April 2014

I’ve such a scoop, you won’t believe. Last week I penetrated to the core, and was in intimate confab with one who vies with the PM as a power in Our Land.

But it must wait because I’ve been worshipping Mary Berry. How I look forward to her TV cooking programme on Mondays! I love the sun-drenched Buckinghamshire Regency ambience, the white walls, the immaculate honey gravel, the set of well-trained grandchildren, the dream demesne, with Mary herself at the centre, champagne coiffure, fitted floral top and white slacks, above all without fail prepared in advance, at leisure but fit to be seen and braced to feed an army,with expression verging on pained from formidable. Sex out of the question.

The English suburbs at their best fifty years ago. But she has modernised. She loves roasted vegetables. She goes so far as to wedge them into a salmon en croute, with red pesto, for the buffet table. Salads, she says, can be prepared beforehand even with the dressing in, if you put the crunchy bits such as celery on the bottom,sitting in the oil, and leave tossing until the last minute. Steaks also can be fried in advance, 1 1/2 minutes on both sides, then re-heated for 6 minutes in the oven. I tried this when Angus Willis and Fergus Strachan dined last week, with Mary’s Stilton Butter. £27 for steaks from Waitrose for 3. It wasn’t the same as a freshly fried steak but not over-cooked. How clever of Mary to discover this. On the other hand you could roast a whole fillet of beef in the oven for a dinner if you’re worried about smoke and  the bother of frying individual steaks for a large party. Fergus loved Mary’s ensemble proving her success with those whose life is not food.

As we ate Mary we watched her. She was putting honey in her curry. She said ‘You might be surprised that I like curry.’

Previously Laura Malcolm and I decided to both cook in our separate homes Mary’s Butternut Squash and Spinach Lasagne. It was an extraordinary experience. Quite an elaborate dish. Tomato sauce was made with passata and red pesto so it tasted just like Heinz tomato soup. There was a white sauce. The spinach you just poured boiling water over to cook. I was confident it would be absolutely horrid. In fact it was eatable but one won’t be making it again.

Finally: Mary’s Mediterranean chicken. This had a bizarre jangle of ingredients: bacon, garlic (a rare suggestion from Mary), olives with anchovies, courgettes, paprika,potatoes and preserved lemons. What would it be like? It’s useful to know that potatoes will cook with thighs. The preserved lemons, oddly, because they have such a strong taste, disappeared and had no role. So, enfin, it wasn’t really Mediterranean at all. Which I’m sure is just as Mary’s fans would like it.

Mary Berry’s Mediterranean Chicken Before the Over

Mary Berry’s Mediterranean Chicken After the Oven

Mary’s Mediterreanean Chicken as Pictured in a Magazine. Mine Looked Quite Like the Picture so Brill

Friday 4th April 2014

To me, nothing is more thrilling than important works of art being conveyed through Europe by road. But not many share this view.

I happened to be in the offices of Dainty Lady TV. Genevieve Suzy was presiding at her desk with outfit and hair, as well as jewellery, recalling the great days of Helen Gurlie-Brown. ‘What do you think?’ she said, pincering from a pile an invitation card.

It was only the Press View for the Veronese Exhibition the very next day. Just the Frau ohne Schatten and the nighttime to get through and we’d be there, at the core of our National life, in those rooms, for the 10 am Press View and Curator-led Tour.

It did become clear that there’d been a evening function the night before – but never mind. They wouldn’t have been allowed to have their drinks in the rooms with the art. Genevieve Suzy waylaid a man in a green-brown suit. ‘We were rather expecting a curator-led tour,’ she said tartly. ‘I’m the Director…’ the man said… of the National Gallery, he meant. But at once it was curtsey-ing and, ‘Yes, of course, Dainty Lady TV, you do such nice things..’ More bobbing…’I was in Washington you know, at one time. Table setting is quite different there.’  So charming.

Then the Director addressed the assembly. Beside him stood a hot man, well-styled, a clever grey. The Head of Credit Suisse! He addressed the Press. What the Banks do for Art and Education. Then the Curator was brought forward. He was a dead ringer for Placido Domingo in youth. So the tour began. Lots of lovely talk about the Herculean conveying of the pix (Veronese painted BIG), the negotiations with the Vicars of St Bilious, Mantua and St Cornelian of the Little Sisters of the Sacred Heart of the Pitiful Mother of the Virgin, Via Laburnum, Verona to get hold of the Martyrdom of St George and the Conversion of St Nicholas. ‘This one has not left the Louvre since the 17th century,’ Placido proclaimed. ‘And this one has never before left Venice.’

Was in floods with the history.

Then we came to an inner room. Big change of tack. Pixs were frankly porn. Massively haunched Mars, wearing only two sashes, about to ‘play’ with Venus. There was a whole series of Mars and Venus, Mars in every case clearly modelled on Placido Domingo. Very nearly I said to the Curator, ‘Are you interested in Veronese because you’re in the pix?’ I mentioned it to Genevieve and some of the other Press heard and sniggered. It was a lucky escape because it would have been embarrassing. At that hour of the morning, one had not quite taken that these paintings reveal everything except the sexual organs.

A Threesome of Greatness: Left, The Head of Credit Suisse, Middle, The Director of the National Gallery in Our Time, Right, the Curator of the Veronese Exhib, Who is a Dead Ringer for Placido Domingo

Credit Suisse’s Head: A Fine Man

Credit Suisse’s Head: All that a Man Should Be: Handsome, Clever and Rich and Thin

An Ascension by Veronese, More Dynamic than Usual

Wuf! Wuf! Mars (Played by Placido Domingo) in Sex Act with Venus, Surprised by Horse Looking On

Placido Domingo Quelled by Love

Thursday 3rd April 2014

We left Wales and returned to England. I won’t say it was a relief but there was the pleasure of returning from abroad. Wales is another country, mainly made of slate. There’s a certain impressive grimth. The churches look different with multi-faceted pitch roof surmounted by slate-hung spire. On the way out, in the Official Car with Xenon Driving lights, we saw a bi-lingual road sign. The Welsh part said, ‘Gywneth Paltrow’ and the English part said ‘Keep your distance.’ So now we know: ‘Gywneth Paltrow’ is the Welsh for ‘Keep your distance.’

What  a discovery! Val chatted agreeably as Greatnesses have done on car journeys since cars began. His subjects were concealed malnutrition and night-time starvation.

After many hours – concealed malnutrition is a far huger problem than generally recognised and as for night-time starvation…. we gained our family lands in the West. The Gay Mother refused to attend. Too busy in the garden with the coming of fine weather. Val and I were obliged to go to the other family’s mansion and don hard hats and hi-viz jackets. Only 4x4s could traverse the heaved up terrain. So we were driven up by our Agent who was cross at having to attach a flashing light to his machine. We reached a high knoll being mashed up by bulldozers. It was seething with men in hard hats and high viz jackets, undistinguishable from each other. Press were present but took no interest in Val or myself luckily. A thin, whippy wind got up. Across the valley we could see the devastation we had driven through after the Gay Mother’s 90th Birthday lunch (one of them) at the end of February and the awful old buildings soon to be demolished, now exposed without trees around and looking menacing.

Nothing much seemed to be happening. It was a strange social occasion attended by clones all in hard hats and high viz jackets. Many Australian voices. Eventually 4 or 5 of the clones (dignitaries in fact) poked ornamental spades into the ground and were photographed doing so by Press photographers. Val and I, frozen, got back into the Agent’s vehicle and waited to be driven back for the tea at the other family’s mansion. At which, men no longer in hard hats and high viz jackets turned out to be Government officials, contractors, county councillors. Val forged in and engaged. ‘Who are you?’ they said. ‘Adrian’s one of the owners,’ Val said. Indifference was only slightly tinged with resentment.

An Unusual Social Occasion

Clearance in Progress

Saturday 29th March 2014

Val devised a coach-trip-type final day in Wales with about seventeen stops.

We surged forth from the third hotel, which was a National Trust hotel near Llandudno, real Jacobean in parts with a bay on the stairs for tea. First stop Llandudno to study the pier and gain an explanation for the wreckage behind the Grand Hotel – where the latest version of the Forsyte Saga was filmed. Otherwise moribund. Then a car tour round the wild headland in the fog. Then on to Conwy. Magnificent view of Conwy Castle, built by Edward the 1st, looming in silver mist. But it’s a ruin. Val said that all the medieval castles were limewashed stark staring white in their day. Telford used Conwy’s walls to suspend a mini suspension bridge.  With no roof and moss growing, the Royal Apartments were a bit bleak. Tried to empathise with the Middle Ages. Couldn’t.  The castle entrance is just a hole in the wall up a vertical ramp. It might be necessary to pour boiling oil on guests. Well, there’s a link perhaps with the agonies of the Poor Little Rich Gays of today. Val bought a Celtic rug in the gift shop for £22.

On to Penrith. A massive Norman hulk hove into view. I was by then acclimatised to the prospect of a ruin. ‘Oh no!’ Val said, ‘it’s a National Trust Stately with furniture’. Absolutely ghastly. One assumed about 1880, worst kind of heavy, indigestible, ornate, cluttered up. But in fact it’s 1820. Queen Victoria woz ‘ere, her bedroom a prison of dark green and wood carving. Although it was lunch-time the cafe hadn’t got any lunch, only tea.

On to Caernarvon. How about doing up these medieval castles? They’re basically out of doors. Walls and a lawn inside. We saw the  Daïs where she sat and also the museum of the Investiture. But she hasn’t donated that yellow silk dress and coat with hat like a bunch of bananas upside down. Val said, from the photographs, it looked an abortion. You could see a line of stitching where the hem was.  But at last Val found a regimental museum. We spent so long looking at medals it was touch and go whether we’d gain Bodnant in time for the garden tour of the Dell. Which were the VCs? There didn’t seem to be any. But suddenly soldiers’ frockage in glass cases! That very fabric Val had been explaining in the Laura Ashley hotel – Melton. So densely woven a raw edge could be left unhemed.  And the very tight fit of the outfit. Then we found the VCs. They had them separate.

So we dashed on for Bodnant but Genevieve Suzy phoned while we were in the car park and Val needed toilet so the gate had been snapped shut by the time we reached it. Terribly common to shut on the dot. We were only 3 minutes late. What is the National Trust coming to? We could have pulled the Dainty Lady TV string but chose not to. Some rare magnolias and rhododendrons were just in view and seared on the memory.

Llandudno Misty Pier

Conwy Castle: Now Outdoors

Conwy Castle: the Royal Apartments

Telford’s Mini Suspension Bridge at Conwy, Suspended from the Castle Walls

Penrith Castle: Gloomy

Penrith Castle: Grim Stairs with Monster Posts

Penrith: Not a Ruin But That is All that Can be Said

Penrith: Some Old Bedroom

Caernarvon: the Diäs Where She Sat

At Last! A Regimental Museum: A Uniform made of Melton

Medals in Regimental Museum at Caernarvon: We Peered for 40 Mins

Rare Black Uniform in Regimental Museum Caernarvon: Frogging

Tuesday 25th March 2014

‘I’m not going in that annexe,’ Val said as our Official car with Xenon driving lights hove into view of Innisdog Luxury Five-Star Hotel, Wales.

We were shown straight into the Annexe It turned out to be newly built, of Welsh slate, with beams. Honed rare woods, slate wall sections, rustic but luxurious, floor-to-ceiling picture windows and FABRICS!  Splashy red poppies on silver, someone loved big patterns. Acres of Roman blinds for the windows. Val had a fully silvered chest in his room. The beds we couldn’t think of how to mount. They were so raised.

We were in fact treasured in the annexe. It was their show-piece, their revelation for 2014. I had a Mussolini bathroom, entirely in black and white, with sarcophagus bath on a daïs.

For tea we were in the drawing room of the main building. After Nature we were in a hotel, immured in hotel life. No conversation or preoccupations could match the hotel. There was original art on the walls. The pictures of sheep were huge and in electronic colours with furniture and fabrics to go with. ‘Let’s go back to the chalet,’ said Val, wickedly. We would bathe and pamper and loll. I hoped to exploit my Mussolini bathroom fully, working from toilet to shower to bath. One’s pants were wretched abandoned on the flawless floor.

At last we were back in the main building for pre-drinks before the 8-course tasting. The cocktail lounge was orange with ultramarine and more bright sheep. Val was worried about the looming polyphonic dinner on account of his delicate constitution. The choice was an 8-course tasting or a 12-course tasting. To have asked for a plain poached egg would have destroyed the chef without doubt.  All the same we bravely entered the dining room, where one elderly couple and a solitary young man were at work on the courses.  The ‘Not French Onion Soup’ was not soup nor onion. I can’t remember what it was. The mackerel, oyster, pork belly and seaweed ensemble was impossible for Val. He could contemplate Jerusalem artichoke but smoked bone marrow – horror!. Prawn – no. Nor the accompanying rhubarb buttermilk lardo. Barbecued and fermented leeks okay but then began the liquid nitrogen phase. We were very taken with the rocket pellets, the wood sorrel pellets (foraging had taken place) and the watercress pellets, achieved by dunking in liquid nitrogen which is so cold it ‘cooks’ whatever is put in it. These pellets accompanied roe deer or the pickled pineapple and ham pudding or the optional cheese course.

After two and a half hours the eight-course tasting docked. ‘Just wait a moment,’ the waitress said. But Val couldn’t. He careered back to the chalet. So alone I faced the actual chef, who loomed with a canister of liquid nitrogen for the final flourish. He was dark and full of mystery and danger.  He spoke of eucalyptus cream and something else. It was hard to listen for fear. Next this helpless little white blob like a meringue was being tormented in a metal basin of the cruel liquid gas. ‘Eat it,’ the demonic chef commanded as he fished the poor thing out. It wasn’t very nice.

Next morning I was subject to waves of intestinal pain. I blamed the Elan Valley Visitor Centre’s tuna melt panini but Val thought otherwise. ‘Will the scrambled egg be nuked?’ he inquired as we crawled into the breakfast room.

Innisdog Five-Star Luxury Hotel: The Drawing Room

Innisdog Five Star Luxury Hotel: The Cocktail Lounge

Val’s Room at Innisdog Luxury Hotel

Pillows for One at Innisdog Luxury Hotel

Cushioning! Cushion Art at its Height at Innisdog Luxury Hotel

Mussolini Bathroom at Innisdog Five-Star Luxury Hotel