Tuesday 16th July 2013

Tomorrow I must return to London. Today I have achieved levels of relaxation almost unheard of for a Poor Little Rich Gay. Not even the energy to transfer the blocks for the cold bag from my Official car with Xenon driving lights to Laura Malcolm’s freezer. My plan is to re-patriate some French chickens for my 9-piece dinner on Thursday.  So must be transported through the Chunnel in a cold bag.

I glanced at my diary for the coming weeks until Tuscany on August 10th. Was immediately wan. Just don’t know how I’ll get through it. Harry Rollo has gone and created a major performance for tomorrow night. All London agog. I’m to be bolt upright in good seats, then on to a party in celebration after. On Thursday,as I say, a nine-piece dinner.

Frocks, perfume, dishes, conversation…

Still nothing heard of Robert Nevil, biographer of the Pony Club of Great Britain. He has evap into darkest Bulgaria.

Where, oh where, is Robert Nevil?

Monday 15th July 2013

Matt Driver’s 54th birthday: we’re having crab, followed by moules marinières and chips. Matt has done so much for chips over the years, giving huge thrust to the oven chip movement in the early 80s. He put oven chips on the map. We’ve just got to the bit where Roberts returns to Eaton Place, still dripping wet after going down in the Titanic. But Lady Margery, of course, is lost. So after dinner, it’ll on with Up-Down on DVD.

Meanwhile in a remote mountain eyrie of Bulgaria, Robert Nevil has teamed up with the most fancified of the orphans – Dennis, who puts on a great performance whenever a cow pisses in the street, which happens often because the village people keep cattle on their ground floors who self-wend back to their byres at  each day’s close, and Saskia, who loves hairbrushes and stationery. The drama this year  is Le Petit Prince, but a Bollywood element is now de rigueur after the howling success of the Bollywood presentation a few years ago. So Dennis did a whirling dance with neck-wrenching. Saskia displayed a selection of Bollywood coiffures. More of the parents came (they’re not really orphans, you see;  the families are too large) and some even took their children home for the rest of the holidays.

Things are getting better for the orphans as a result of Poor Little Rich Gay intervention and the EU. Now Bulgaria is in the EU, standards have got to improve.

Yesterday there was a bus outing for the orphans. Robert Nevil showed up with a packet of yellow cheese crisps for added jollity and was last seen retching on board after eating one himself.

Robert Nevil’s current whereabouts are unknown.

Sunday 14^th July  2013

Robert Nevil still native in deepest mountains of Bulgaria. I’m in Normandy with Laura Malcolm and Matt Driver and Esmé Manning. She was in Heidi Hi and now has a fabulous new lift-and-separate bra.  ‘So far from your Poor Little Rich Gay life, the Norman life,’ Laura said, before launching on The Marseillaise to mark Bastille Day.

Up to a point – Matt and Laura have extended their Norman residence, which is a chateau fragment of some grandeur anyway. Now there are five bedrooms, a new swimming pool-sized drawing room, three bathrooms and four lavs. The park is also subject to improvement.  Only the curtain in my attic bedroom is kind of strangled, mangled, hanging by just one hook.

Laura loves décor and the home, like any Poor Little Rich Gay. ‘What better to keep thoughts of death at bay,’ she says. She adores managing and sourcing but once the builders have left, she pushes her creation forth into the world to manage as best it can. She possesses a vac but does not know how to switch it on.

Actually I’m balmy and sprung in Normandy, like a spring-release cake-tin that has been released. I don’t care about the curtain. Light is blocked sufficiently. This morning, almost, I clambered into yesterday’s marked jeans (marked by the Channel Tunnel, which also turned my hands salty. I had to go out of my official car with Xenon driving lights for toilet and was scuffed by bumpers as I squeezed between the vehicles. The salt not explained. I suspect seepage in the tunnel).

Now I think of it, those same jeans were already marked indelibly by the Multis’ new country house. I was there two weeks ago, on the day they bought it. It’s the dirtiest house I’ve ever seen. We had Bollinger on its terrace, with a great whiff of sewage from the collapsed septic tank, then over-nighted before Glyndebourne. Of course it’ll be renovated but you wouldn’t believe the sight of both Multis, in bespoke suits, vac-ing and scrubbing so we could have some hope of getting into bed without contamination. The next morning, the Blond Multi and I attempted to scour the bath. The suite is beyond avocado. Not even the most vicious Vim would shift the dirt. The bath had not been cleaned since 1983. The carpet one longed to set fire to on the spot. The Photo Multi was still in bed. The Blond had asked him if he intended to get up. ‘No, there’s nothing to do here.’

Poor Little Rich Gays could slip, though, into country ways. I can see it. Those jeans – I used every known product on the stains from the Multis’ new country house. Nothing worked. Then I put them on again for boarding yesterday. I boarded in marked garments.

I Relax Over Norman Curtain Hanging Method

Bulgarian Orphans – Robert Nevil’s New Family

Friday 12th July 2013

Disturbing news of Robert Nevil, biographer of the Pony Club of Great Britain.

Tomorrow I board for Normandy, missed last year owing to pressure of engagements – the Jubilee, followed by the Olympics. Laura Malcolm and Matt Driver have driven through into the barn and established a panoramic Norman drawing room. It’ll be quite different there now. I’m planning evening outfits as well as day. We’re going to pass the time dreaming up names for the Royal Baby – how about ‘Royal’?  Anne is called ‘Royal’ after all. A precedent is set.

Meanwhile, Robert Nevil is in Bulgaria, with the orphans. ‘With’ carries more weight than might be expected. I’m getting news from Anthony Mottram, ‘consultant’ of Prague, whose ‘business’ sponsors a Summer drama festival for the orphans of a remote mountain village in Bulgaria. I was there myself in 2009, before great polar ice jammed between Anthony Mottram and myself. Robert Nevil has been there every summer since, leaving me, Adrian Edge, behind. This year they’re doing ‘Le Petit Prince’.

But Robert Nevil’s gone native. He’s not just ‘with’ the orphans. His hair has turned the virulent copper favoured in Bulgaria. At mealtimes, such as they are, Anthony Mottram sits alone over the flaccid re-formed chicken segments in the village eating-house. What one gives to help those less fortunate.

Where is Robert Nevil?  You won’t believe it. He’s scrabbling on the floor. In the orphan canteen. Well, actually the sausage is not thrown down for the orphans to fight for on the floor. That was the scene in Robert Nevil’s own childhood kitchen. His mother had dogs and children and scattered the food for them both equally to get what they could. An excellent system and the making of a Poor Little Rich Gay  but now it seems Robert Nevil has merged with the orphans entirely,

It’s doubtful he’ll return. Or resume the literary life. What a turn of events.

Bulgarian Hotel Decor

Wednesday 10th July 2013

Oh yes! The one fingered in the Select Committee today by Lord Patten – whose wife Lavender is an intimate of Harry Rollo who dined yesterday while poor Lord Arrowby had to scratch that same dinner at the last minute all because of a Select Committee but not the same one as the Director General was slagged off in and with whom I once sat on a bench in Royston King’s garden (he’s the great committee figure – but not Select Committee –  and huge know-ist – knows everyone if they’re someone ). On that bench in Royston King’s garden, where a party was being held, were the Director-General in question, although at the time he was not Director-General and Moira Stewart (of TV). The D-G’s car and driver were throbbing at the door. On the garden bench he was promoting the Atkins Diet. He was on the Atkins Diet. Do you remember it? You only eat meat on the Atkins Diet. ‘Doesn’t it bung you up?’ said Moira and rather crushed the D-G who was not yet quite D-G but with another TV outfit – therefore more crushable.

Sadly in the end it was Moira who was crushed because they kicked her off reading the news on BBC Breakfast and there was national outcry; even in the House of Commons it was railed against. But at least Moira crushed the D-G that time over the Atkins Diet first.

Monday 8th July 2013

Just imagine if he’d not won! So precarious. We were rocking at the cliff edge right to the very end. If he’d lost that last service game, had to go on to break again and hold serve again… it doesn’t bear thinking about.

It seemed to me Djokovic was on top throughout despite the score, making Murray run around at will in the rallies, never letting him near the net. Although perhaps it was a defensive scheme, because Murray can return almost everything.

Why is tennis the greatest game? I mean the singles. Doubles is glorious, but quite a different thing.  In singles, the solitary soul is so gruellingly exposed on the Court. No other sport so violently sears. And then the unendingness; no time limit. On you go until the end, no let-up, no escape. But the greatest genius was whoever invented the scoring system. Tennis would be nothing without it. Victory, or defeat, can depend on one break of serve and that can be achieved, from deuce, by winning a mere two points in succession. Those points might be won in any manner of ways, after one stroke or twenty-five.

Poor Little Rich Gays, here and throughout the world, are all Wimbledon Champions in their way. No normal steady life for us. Tormented and riven, we forge on and on. Our strokes are sublime; at the side of the court, we stamp and rave and mutter to ourselves. No lounging in a lounger, not a moment’s peace, the glory always past but yet to come.

Saturday 6th July 2013

Yesterday, after a lifetime, I gained Wimbledon. All else, yet to be blogged, is swept away – Lord Arrowby’s party (one of his outfits was see-thru: a porn star was present), the Multis’ new country house (32 derelict acres to the be strimmed: the Multis have looked at strimmers in B&Q and looked away), the garden visits, the SALES, my dinner on Wednesday honoured by Lady Carmichael, mother of the Blond Multi, and her daughter, Poisa, who runs a husband, six children, a large establishment with pool, as well as a herd of sheep and pigs, yet is always groomed and frocked to perfection and full of conversation.

Wimbledon! I’ve been there on TV since the 60s. Tennis! The greatest of all sports. Why? The honed artistry yet the nightmare unpredictability of dealing with those balls. The eras coming and going. The rarity of total thrill. Margaret Court was courtside today. She’s only 61 but her era so long, long ago. To us, now, she can only be a ghost, although to herself doubtless not. When Jimmy Connors left the Centre Court for the last time, I was in floods. Yesterday, in person, we saw some of the all-time greats of the game.

I started with the black and white game and the players getting greyer and greyer: Billie-Jean and Margaret Court in their epic battles, each set going 13-11, in the days before the tie-break. Then we went colour. 1977 was the astonishing semi-final between Vitis Gerulitis and Bjorn Borg, the entire nation thrilled to the bone. Then came the McEnroe-Borg finals. At the end of one of them, Harry Carpenter said that in all the years of Grandstand, there had never been anything like it. After that Sampras and the power serve – a dreary stretch. Now the return of artistry and elegance and that stunning final between Nadal and Federer.

But so soon over.

What will tomorrow bring – the Murray-Djokovic encounter?

So, yesterday, accompanied by the Photo Multi, I finally gained the All England Club in person. Of course it’s smaller and more muddled than imagined, really just a sports club but with many hanging baskets of petunias. To get onto No 1 Court, where we had tickets, you have to crawl through a cement cavern underneath it, cheered up with photos of the players of yesteryear. It’s less glamorous and less redolent of the English summer as they make it look on TV. But more casual, more like a school sports day. It’s not really quiet on the show courts. Players on the outside courts have to contend with people ambling past. Sometimes the balls are hit out of the court and disappear. You might see some glamorous, very finished ladies, in fact with skin the unique honed bronze of rich people who, as you know,  are a different colour from everyone else, engaged in a minutely attended contest: they turn out to be Jana Novotna and Barbara Schett, their day completely over.

We saw a ladies doubles semi-final and mixed doubles semi final on No 1 Court. Excellent tennis but not thrilling. With no commentary and TV action replay one has even less idea of what’s going on but the Chinese ladies who eventually won the ladies doubles championship were a delight to watch. Then we scurried home to watch the main event on TV – the Murray semi-final. Although at Wimbledon, we were really missing one of its greatest afternoons of all time, two outstanding mens’ semi-finals – on Centre Court where we were not.

Our great glory was to gain entry to the Broadcasting Centre, because the Multis know one of the most powerful people in BBC sport. We gazed upon Sue Barker’s cardboard coffee cup in her studio (she was on loo break) and, because we were with one of the most important people in BBC sport, were greeted as long lost by hot, handsome Andrew Castle, that fabulous advert for the older man.  Then, coming along a corridor, still in a tennis dress, although a purple one, an unbelievable figure of about 30, that indescribable honey-beige hue to the skin of astonishing smoothness, hair an absolute blonde, very much the sense of an icon with a no-go zone around her – yes, yes, yes! It was Chris Evert, in fact 59.

So going to Wimbledon is like tennis itself – who knows what you might see or miss.

Sue Barker’s Actual Cup of Coffee in Her Studio at Wimbledon

Sue Barker’s Studio at Wimbledon

The Editor of Wimbledon Live TV Coverage, in Truck out the Back of Wimbledon Selecting Camera Angles: Great Hair and Alice Band

More TV Brain Centre in Truck at Back of Wimbledon

Entrance to No 1 Court, Wimbledon, the All England Club

Boys’ Doubles Semi-Final in Progress, Wimbledon

Boy Doubles Pair on No 18 Court, where Longest Match Ever was Played in 2010

Wednesday 3rd July 2013

The public were admitted to my garden recently; it was a charity opening. I gave a lunch beforehand attended by Aunt Lavinia – the menu was cold poached chicken with beans, broad beans, asparagus and peas with tarragon dressing followed by apricot fool. The debris of the luncheon was also on view to the public who much appreciated the insight apparently. At Versailles, the King dined in public; it was exhibition dining. Maybe the custom should be revived. Certainly, when Aunt Lavinia was mistress at Basketworthy,she took coffee in the drawing room after lunch regardless of any paying members of the public touring the house.

Did the public in my garden quite know where they were? Lord Arrowby himself manned the front door, in paisley panels. He arrived just in time for lunch and said he hadn’t eaten for days and was living on his nerves. ‘Would you mind waiting outside for a moment?’ So he addressed the public pressing to get through my house to the garden. Little did they know that it is usually the PM he is addressing in firm but reassuring tones. Or the Newsnight team, saying ‘No.’ Lord Arrowby throbs at our Nation’s heart, if anyone does.

Next the public encountered Bruce MacBain, who took the money. Architect to the Poor Little Rich Gays and other celebrities, charmer of first order. The public were enchanted of course but did they sense the wracking plethora of detail lurking behind the facade? The tiling modules to be got right, the grouting agony, the array of sliding glass doors from which to choose? Finally, downstairs in the kitchen, Robert Nevil, biographer of the Pony Club of Great Britain, was operating a kettling system before releasing small quantities of public into my tiny garden, where I, Adrian Edge, was also to be found.

Visitors were charming, generally appreciative; they either knew nothing or everything, just as Lady Bracknell said. Many asked questions with less interest in the reply. I never stopped talking. ‘That little shrunk lady in brown,’ Robert Nevil said when it was over, ‘she was someone.’ But we couldn’t think who. Not Eva Figes, because she’s passed. But another such – Viennese, possibly.

I didn’t sense an absolute obeisance to the Poor Little Rich Gays. On the whole they seemed to think it was normal middle-class.

If opening next year (if spared as well), maybe a different approach. Somehow to strike terror and love.

My Garden on June 10th 2013

My Cistus, Not Shown to the Public

My Garden on June 23rd 2013, After Showing to the Public

My Garden on June 10th 2013

My Garden on June 23rd 2013, After the Public Opening

30th June 2013

I’m so behind, what with my breakdown and a massive bouquet of engagements. Lord Arrowby’s party was on Friday; there’s the Multis’ new country home to be revealed, our visit to Sissinghurst, a multitude of other gardens, Glyndebourniana, Eddie Sedgewick’s studio show (Ronnie Ronnie present).

Meanwhile, here are some Gays at Gay Pride. Aren’t they marvellous?

Today Bruce MacBain dropped by on his way to a Hackney function. He viewed my new old rose carpet. I was in dread he would wither – but he didn’t. I said, ‘It needs to fade a little. It looks too new.’ We agreed that improvements to the home first of all look too new, then they look too old. There’s probably one point on a particular day, which you may or may not be there to witness, of absolute perfection. It’s like a pear which is only at a ideal stage of ripeness for five minutes at most.

Then Val came round for a fitting – he’s doing a wing armchair in Kendal Blue from Lewis and Wood. We are of the same mind that we don’t like buses with three numbers except for the 159. Val waited for 40 minutes for a 98 outside the Kensington Hilton before realising that that bus has gone off-piste because of the upheaval to the water main at Notting Hill. Today I saw a 21 in entirely the wrong place.

I knew there was something I’d forgotten – THE SALES! There’re as good as over. Nothing left. But a goodly choice of Balenciaga at Harrods. I got a little grey cardy reduced from £450. Can’t remember what to. V. little. I now crave a white non-jean slack, some summer shirts and some dark shirts. But really could wait until the Prada factory shop.

Only six weeks to Tuscany.

The Gays on Gay Pride

Gay Pride

More Bodies: Gay Pride

Tall: Gay Pride

Classic: Gay Pride

Lederhosen: Gay Pride

Heads: Gay Pride

Gay Pride

Discreet Veiling: Gay Pride

Monday 24th June 2013

I’ve resurged. My worn nerve-ends and wracked limbs were restored by the Multis who’ve bought a country house. They even consoled and comforted my three-and-a-half-year bleeding wound. So much to tell: I visited the Multis’ new country house on Friday , took Sissinghurst garden and Glyndebourniana in a gale on Saturday and then on to the Gay Mother’s where I am now. She’s got a tick in her arm and is still furious with Emily Davidson for throwing herself under the King’s horse in 1913. ‘Crack-pot,’ she said. Tonight we’re going up to the Garden House for an open evening with either Cornish pasty or crab salad. £5.

So, ten days ago, Joshua Baring dined with the Gosling Poor Little Rich Gays. Except that Jesus has moved in with a boyfriend.

I’ll explore my menus later. My summer menus are very classic this year.

Jesus is from South America but is also American. His work is geography-based and very caring. He studies the Poor of the world:  they may get tablets for their diseases, but then what? They all start living, but no frockage, no menus, no home, no tiling module, no kitchen units to configure, no swatches to agonise over. By study, he helps them to live once they’ve got over their diseases

So Jesus went to Guatemala for a conference. While there he did sun-bathing and was self-announced as ‘brown all over.’ You can imagine the frenzy but Robert Nevil and I didn’t quite believe and it turned out small swim shorts were worn. But Joshua Baring’s not pleased about Jesus moving in with his boyfriend. There was a bit of a spat at dinner. Now they’re not on speakers. A crystalline, brilliant purity in pursuit of the truth, no mincing niceness, is greatly prized, although dangerous if it is not the truth that is revealed. Myself, I have loved this quality, with its bracing, cold humanity, in another for many years, almost since birth.

Patrick Lockyer, meanwhile, was silvery and quivery on the outside only. He’s recently been involved with someone from one of the perfume counters. His flatmate has turned out to be bi-polar. He was wearing a whippy little Calvin Klein suitlette and was sometimes in the corner phoning Bermuda to issue an injunction. ‘It’s for some poor people who’ve been maligned,’ he rebutted, when Joshua Baring accused him of only injuncting on behalf of rubbish footballers who’ve done it anyway. Patrick said I could do something about my liver spots. ‘Sulphuric acid?’ I said. To prevent hair loss, he takes a treatment intended for prostrate cancer. His hair was looking superb.

On parting, I said, ‘You’ve got all your lives before you, gosling Poor Little Rich Gays.’ Well, actually about two-thirds. They’ve had one third already. They’re having their lives very nicely.

Of course, any one of them might leave for New York at a moment’s notice – and not come back.