Wednesday 27th June 2012

The Gay Mother and I gained Bath on Saturday at 1.10pm for the family wedding. A filthy sign outside the nasty posh pub opposite the church said ‘Food Fully Booked.’ After a scene, we wrested a tuna and spring onion wich and a chicken mango and avo wich for the Gay Mother. ‘Mango’s off,’ they said. ‘Thank God,’ said the Gay Mother. I’ve seen an identical sandwich list (Greek Salad wich, Fish Finger wich), identical in content and appearance, in a similar posh pub in Hertfordshire, also full of vicious families hanging low over full fat menu options, gloating in sour triumph for having booked everything.

A bit of the tuna and spring onion wich dropped onto the trousers of my new dove-blue polyester (slight shimmer and slub) Topman suit (about which there’s a back-story, yet to be revealed), so in the official car with Xenon driving lights, I struggled into my new Japanese black suit with silk facings and made of a jersey fabric, which I got at The Library (40% off).

I wasn’t so sure about it once on. Threads. Bits. It’s going to be one of those.

Anyway the Bridal pair had all the Coronation music played for their entrance and exit: ‘I was Glad’ and ‘Zadok the Priest’.

Let us hope for their happiness. The wedding was charming, not least for simple under-stated speeches and lack of ramming down the throat of self-important coupledom. ‘I realised I’d fallen in love,’ the Groom announced at the microphone. ‘I thought, “Oh dear”.’

Yes, exactly.

It’s strange because the  other day in Paris Harry Rollo, the world-class impressario and performance artist, was saying there can only be one wedding, one marriage, whether enduring or not. This is so true. In my case, I was near married to Anthony Mottram, consultant of Prague, for 42 years. Now he has married someone else. There is just one person; there is also a complex web of relationships and not just one person.

On that paradox, I dance.

Cousin Barley was in an Alice Temperley black-lace-web-over-crushed-strawberry-satin mini-dress; Aunt Lavinia wore a vintage (1980s)Anna Belinda of Oxford – a padded, fitted bodice, fuller skirt and sleeves with borders at the hem and cuffs – quite a Janacek look if the people in those operas had had a bit more money and sense of fun.

Come later for the Bath graveyard and lavish coverage of my summer sales experience

Friday 22nd June 2012

Tomorrow we leave for another Bath wedding, following on from last year’s. The Gay Mother is to wear trousers. I’ve got a new Japanese black suit in a jersey fabric with silk facings like a dinner suit. 40% off. I might have a Topman silver-blue polyester suitlette (about which there’s a story) for the Reception.

Last week, a friend of the Multis who is a Trustee of an military charity offered a military parade at Horse Guards Parade. It was Beating the Retreat. The Earl and Countess of Wessex were present and it rained not immoderately throughout. Beforehand was a function in the Officers’ Mess of the Wellington Barracks. Amazing old bird was introduced: no sentences finished on principle and many words a burble; said the previous week had been a family holiday, canoeing on the River Wye, might as well as have been a SAS induction course; pissed down the entire time. His wife wasn’t ill, but had said, re: Beating the Retreat, she didn’t want another soaking, wasn’t coming.

You have to sit entirely out of doors at Horse Guards Parade, you see.

Then he was talking about some other trustees who’d got to be got rid of. ‘It’s no good….massage… men have got… what do you call it? ‘ (wriggles fingers in air) ‘Yes, massage… if you …just tell them… got to massage …. otherwise he’ll just fuck off and take the whole…..with him. Now I suppose I’d better go and talk to someone else.’

Later there were speeches. Someone said, ‘General Sir So and So’ will speak.

It was this man! The non-soak wife man! By now, with barely any words at all, so well refreshed.

‘Last year, many of you will remember…. my speech was perfectly marvellous….’

Couldn’t have loved it more. Had no idea the military are like this. So Poor Little Rich Gay.

The Royal Cavalry of Oman Heading for Beating the Retreat, Horseguards Parade

In the Loos, Officers' Mess, Wellington Barracks

Tuesday 19th June 2012

I hadn’t the strength to crash Trenton’s Gallery’s Summer Party. Miroslav arrived at 7, stripped off lining paper and moved some slabs. Whole of the rest of the day clearing up for me.

But Grayson….. exceptional this evening! Those feet!

What Legs! Grayson at Trenton's Gallery's Summer Party this Evening: Photo: The Photo Multi

Sunday 17th June 2012

Something miraculous happened today re: frockage. I was at Topman. I must tell you.

But how quickly Royalty fades. Did the Jubilee ever happen? Majesty is now appearing on sub-standard balconies in Nottingham, I see.

I quite forgot to reveal that Princess Alexandra attended the street party on the Jubilee Monday in Giles Ullerston and Frankie-Doreen May’s street. I was there too. Frankie-Doreen is actually a Republican. She felt so sorry for Prin Alex, having to ask the band if they’d been a band long. Princess also experienced several ‘opportunities to tidy’ in the better houses in the street, or whose possessors had ambition for Royalty in their toilet.

‘Opportunities to tidy’ was the phrase used on the schedule for the visit issued by the Street Party Committee who have also erected already a plaque commemorating the occasion.

Frankie-Doreen’s daughter, Glory, thought the Princess’s fabric was Stay-Press. I thought it a magical mauve and her beauty and charm great. Her back hair has never quite worked (you remember at Princess Anne’s hairdresser’s memorial meeting, where she was present, her back hair was controversial) but being totally Royal as she is (both parents fully royal), but she rises completely above it.

Now what about Napoleon? Was he Poor Little Rich Gay? Surely his camping was very high. I’ve heard he had a chef to hand on the battlefield who on the night before the battle of Marengo conjured up the first ever Chicken Marengo.

In Paris last weekend, I visited Napoleon’s tomb with Harry Rollo as well as the museum of the Invalides next door. Oddly, on Thursday, I attended a  Beating the Retreat with the Multis at Horseguards Parade.

I’ve never had a military leaning before. Do you know, Poor Little Rich Gays have got more in common with the military than you might think. There’s a certain freedom – just you wait and see.

Now I must mention for the last time, my Jubilee luncheon on Jubilee final day: when sudden Jubilation struck: despite the horseradish being woody, the beef possibly under-done, the broadbeans mealy, the French beans not the best and as for the chicken with tarragon cream sauce… well, Val said (yes, he came! his first big engagement since hip replacement after hip snap from fall while sauced in September): ‘I spent the entire late 70s trying to get that sauce to thicken.’

It’s an egg-bound sauce, you see. Has to be stirred for hours over low heat, must never boil. Robert Nevil did it for an important summer luncheon in about 1983 and suffered terribly from failure to thicken.

I did too, for Jubilee 2012.

But, finally, it was all all right.  It wasn’t too salty either, as feared.

I couldn’t believe my lack of disappointment with  the food. Such a breakthrough. At last, after almost forty years, I managed to give a luncheon and was not racked.

I overheard Val explaining to Prince Dmitri Hersov the history of the lapel in menswear.

Princess Alexandra at the Street Party in Giles Ullerston and Frankie-Doreen May's Street: Indescribable Mauve

Princess Alexandra at the Street Party in Giles Ullerston and Frankie-Doreen May's Street: Such Poise and Beauty: A Royalty at the Height of her Powers

Napoleon's Camping Arrangements Mocked Up In Invalides Museum, Paris

Napoleon's Tomb: Suitable for Any Poor Little Rich Gay

Napoleonic General with His Kitchen (well, son actually, but I ask you)

Soldiers' Frockage Seen at Invalides Museum, Paris

Display of Models on Top Floor of Invalides Museum, Paris. This is Paté Castle. Models Were Made in C17th for Military Purposes

The Louvre: So Intensely Intimate: Just Imagine Nanny Calling the Children in for Tea from the Top Floor

Saturday 16th June 2012

Just back from the Sales! O! I have spent and economic collapse is imminent, in my private economy as well as the national and European.

If the worst comes to the worst will have to have a Gala at Covent Garden to raise funds for me.

Last weekend I was in Paris. I went Napoleonic. I visited his tomb with Harry Rollo, the international performance artist and impressario, who has been having a spell in Paris since March. As always in Paris I penetrated the highest, this time the hotel particulier of some important performing sisters where Harry was practicing for his own performance.

It was a real wow! hotel particulier, I can tell you.

Harry is to give a perf in Paris tomorrow.

Also, he mentioned a film star in conversation; I mean the conversation the film star had with him, Harry Rollo, but I can’t remember which one or what said. Something about her husband, also a massive star, who is always in the gym having  a healthy relationship with his own vanity.

We also sat very simply in the open air and talked of love. Such a rich subject for the Poor Little Rich Gay, as we know, whose requirements are not as others.

I wonder whether Napoleon was Poor Little Rich Gay at all.

In the street on Monday, I saw Karl Lagerfeld –  blazingly chic and new, thought to be 80 next year.

Karl Lagerfeld, in Glory: Seen in Paris, St Germain, on Monday

Door Through Which Karl Lagerfeld Disappeared: Another Hotel Particulier, No Doubt

Monday 11th June 2012

Sorry I’ve been away. Just a small breakdown. I was going to say post-Jubilee breakdown but actually it was another Glyndebourne picnic, Miroslav, adored, impossible Polish builder, round (that leak! ), prepare my garden for inspection of the National Gardens Scheme (opening next summer, if spared)  then board for Paris where am now – in a 3 star, but 3 star all right in Paris only.

In Paris I’m recuperating from Jubilee. But needless to say I’ve penetrated some hotels particulaires (that’s private homes) of utmost importance belonging to absent international stars.

My Jubilee lunch is slipping out of reach. Soon it will be too late to cover it. It’ll have gone stale. Jubilee broke some Poor Little Rich Gays who fell into the inevitable chasm – would anything be good enough? How could sufficient heights of jubilation be reached?

Edinburgh’s illness helped, giving the right undercurrent. I don’t mean that it wouldn’t have been better had he not been took bad, but jubilation is the greater when pitched against catastrophe.

I found sudden happiness in my flowers. I had a little bunch of roses from my garden; then Tancredo Viamare turned up unexpectedly with a top-class florist’s selection of rare pink and purple blossoms. Together they caused jubilation.

Yes, there was Jubilee.

And my food was all right, too, after much struggle and agony. How I’ve longed to entertain with poise.

Anyway, here are those Gays seen by the Photo Multi in Palm Springs. We’ve been longing and longing for them.

Gays in Palm Springs, Seen by the Photo Multi

Palm Spring Pecs Leaving a Restaurant As Seen by the Photo Multi

Wednesday 6th June 2012

Absolutely wiped out – 16 lunched yesterday. A cold collation. At last, at last, I’m getting somewhere in home entertainment!

There was jubilation! Royal events induce ecstasy and cracking boredom. Everything and nothing are present at once.

Val came! His first venture out after hip snap in September, when, sparklingly refreshed, he crashed to the ground. And over-nighted. We spent the day examining OK Magazine with a magnifying glass. I still can’t grasp the Queen’s shoes for the concert. Was it the marvellous uncompromising black, even with the extraordinary gold short  frock?

Her bag was the same throughout, you know. And black accessories with the pale shimmering St Paul’s outfit.

Val said, Will they put up one of those Blue Peter-style tracking devices outside the hospital? You remember the giant milk bottle in the Blue Peter studio that gradually filled up with metal bottle tops as more and more of those items were received to be melted down for Charity. That was in the late 60s. Surely something similar could be devised to demonstrate the Edinburgh piss-flow as it improves?

Glyndebourne again on Friday. A gale forecast. More menu-ing and executing. National Gardens Scheme ladies coming to consider my garden for opening next summer on Saturday morning. Then board for Paris until Monday.

Come back soon! I’ll tell you about my Loyal Jubilee luncheon for the Jubilee – and Princess Alexandra’s visit!

Sunday 3rd June 2012

Such blessings! Three times blessed today! Yes! I was there. In person, I saw her.  And others too.

We started in the Multis’ Penthouse with TV on.  We saw her arrive. I loved the outfit. More of an installation than an outfit. Especially the hat. We couldn’t make out what was the white napkin she appeared to be carrying. Also her handbag was open. Camellia Parker Bowles seemed to be trying to point it out to her.

Then there was the dash to the VIP area at the Pont de la Tour. That’s the restaurant where the Blond Multi had his 50th Birthday in March. It’s right by Tower Bridge where the Pageant was to end. The Multis got special passes owing to being  massive patrons.

But would we see Her Majesty? It wasn’t certain whether her barque would come anyway near. So taut. Would we get trapped in the Multis’ lift. Would our cars get through?

But we gained the VIP area. Craning to see. Crowds 6 or 7 deep. Quite a long wait. Weather awful. The Blond Multi had a classic Poor Little Rich Gay breakdown. Nothing was good enough for the Queen. She wasn’t enjoying it. Such expectation but the reality a disappointment. We did our best to get him through it.

Then it became known – we would see her. She would pass right through Tower Bridge, which would lift in honour.

At last, at last some boats appeared, ; immediate soaring of spirits. What is it about boats? So festive somehow, with their flags, and individual although marshalled. Prince Dmitri Hersov said he’d prefer a block of manhood – i.e. soldiers but I was thrilled with the gay parade of amateurish enthusiasm. Goodness knows who they all were.

And then, the great bascules (yes! that’s what they’re called. I learned from a ravingly patriotic American man standing next to me) of Tower Bridge lifted and the barge of Majesty appeared. Huge, lowering, with a strange gilded ruff on the bow. We just saw her, a white speck, with arm intermittently flapping.

Her boat moored on the other side of the river and the Queen stood under a gilded canopy on the upper deck for the next hour and a half in unimaginable rain and cold while about 4 million vessels, some singing, some dancing, passed by. Meanwhile, the Multis and Prince Dmitri, Pergola Beckwith, the Blond’s sister, and myself were snug indoors drinking champagne at La Pont with the international patriots who had paid £350 to lunch there for the Pageant.

Coming away, who should I see on Tower Bridge, on foot, mingling with the general, accompanied by four matching orange people…. yes! Pip de la Middleton and, now I think of it, her mother. They had been  in the boat right by the Pont.

In fact also, now I look at the graphs, her father and brother – the entire family, all now orange.

And finally, my favourite Royal thing… at the traffic lights by Aldgate tube station, mounted police were holding up the traffic. In the distance could be seen blue flashing lights. The Prince of Wales’ convoy passed by.

I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

The Belfry Boat Passes Under Tower Bridge

The Gilded Barge, Gloriana Passes By

The Festive Scene

The Barge of Majesty Appears

Can You See Her?

There She is Again!

Raised in Glory

La Famille Middleton Trying to Leave the Pageant: They Thought to Cross Tower Bridge Then Re-Thought

Pip de la Middleton with Mother, Bewildered as to Conveyance from the Pageant: Seen on Tower Bridge

The Prince of Wales' Car, Privately Seen by Me, Adrian Edge, as It Passes by Aldgate Tube Station

Sunday 3rd June 2012

Last night, at the charming, intensely intimate dinner for Robert Nevil’s Coronation Birthday, Sebastian Archer, who once shaped world taste in books (worked in publishing), long, complicated (classic Poor Little Rich Gay) partner of Robert Nevil,  said, If you smell burnt toast it means you’re having a heart attack.

I often smell burnt toast – when there is none, I mean.

We talked extensively of our symptoms at the dinner which was a Robert-Nevil-created lichen based Indian (chicken curry with lichen, accompanied by a dried grey prawn sauce, brought dried in bags from Bombay). The dessert was a self-made ice cream with a dash of Harpic (actually Kaffir Lime leaves).

Here are the graphs I promised of some Gays in Palm Springs – no, I can’t find them.

Rushing now to VIP area. Come back later!

I must try to lose myself in this Jubilee. The Multis have gained VIP access at La Pont de la Tour. We’re to take our passports.

Saturday 2nd June 2012

Today is the Coronation Birthday of Robert Nevil.

The Multis are back from America. They saw some gays in Palm Springs. I’ve been wondering about America. In the 80s it was so adored by certain Gays who would slam it in the face of any provincial London lover. I’ve been wondering if America made the Multis or drove them on in spirit to gain their massive wealth base and a personal economy the size of a small town or city state.

But now America’s gone back down the pan. DOW down nearly 300 points yesterday. Economy not recovering. But we’d heard that it was. Keynesian methods working a treat.

So that’s the end of America, for the time being.

Now, at Glyndebourne, who should be lodged on the lawn, jawing away nine to the dozen at a dismal het couple but Robin Smallmeal, head of landfill in this country or whatever. You may recall that I had a massive falling out with him and his partner, the lachrymose Simon Limpney, after I challenged their diary. How they clung to their diary! It must be full, you see. Many Poor Little Rich Gays feel the same. Somehow, without any prompting from me, they reached the conclusion that I thought they were insufficiently available. They had a psycotic reaction. Limpney shrieked and screamed at me  in an art gallery. To attack the diary, even if only in their imaginations, was fatal. Without the diary, the dinners diarised six weeks in advance, the weekend visits to Massivebury, their country home which was bullozed and re-built, diarised 3 months in advance… without the diary, what would they be?

The last time I telephoned Smallmeal, he slammed down at once, raving like a mad cross between a street thug with a dog and a drama queen (he’s still a trace of a London stallholder-type accent, although born in Stevenage): ‘You’re not getting the message. Neither Simon or I ever want to see you again!’

Oh dear!

Well, at Glyndebourne, he couldn’t avoid me on the stairs going up to the stalls. He was at least civil … and in cheaper seats.

V. odd thing – he was with a couple, man and woman, on the lawn, but only the woman was with him in the theatre for the first half and then only the man for the second.

Here’s my theory: Smallmeal is economising. Landfill is probably in decline. So he buys a pair of Glyndebourne tickets but invites two guests on the understanding that they only get one half of the opera each.

What a bril idea!

We must try it ourselves.

Come back later for some pictures of Palm Springs Gays