So We go Back to Rufus Pitman’s Outstanding Dedicatees’ Dinner

Saturday 14th May 2011

Tomorrow will be my account of Kernow Hellizon’s launch: he was actually there – a world-figure more enduring and as high as Diana Wales or Mrs Onassis. You won’t believe it. You won’t believe the other names either.

But Rufus Pitman’s dinner for the dedicatees of his novel, Buns and Bums at the Seaside, endures more as does the exceptional work. So far it has endured and not gone bitter, as perhaps the other might in the strange mind of a Poor Little Rich Gay, since 14th April.

I hope you know this novel. It was out in March. I couldn’t agree with it more. It’s not directly about Poor Little Rich Gays; its Gays are neither rich nor poor. If they were it would be even worse. But they’re not normal. Nobody is of course, except those with something seriously the matter with them. But I won’t have it any other way. Gays are not as others, Poor Little Rich Gays doubly so … and still subject to the attentions of Neighbourhood Watch.

Read Buns and Bums. You’ll get the idea.

What about its dedicatees? Great list of them, some married up to a point, high proportion Poor Little Rich, off and on their heads at the same time. Lord Arrowby, that austere Governmental figure from the highest of power’s corridors, made a late bronzed contradictory entrance, displayed in a complex web of designer clothes and eyewear: sand trousers by Paul and Joe, sequined dun T-Shirt by Dries, aubergine evening jacket with damask pattern from an exclusive Indian line, man’s silver necklace. He had an absolute grasp of his labels. After that he was not seen by me. I sat with Reggie Cresswell, the international Ghanaian ceramicist, who was suffering from nervous strain brought on by having Miroslav, our adored nightmare builder to the Poor Little Rich Gays, in attendance in the home. But he was approached by a fan which made him delighed and uncomfortable.

Reggie and I agreed many years ago that we would never know another good night’s sleep after Miroslav. (By the way, I hear that Rufus has got builders in. Can’t wait to hear more. We love building work, as you know.)

On my other side was Valèry Duplessis, almost unique amongst the PLRGs in having regular employment. He told me his brother is getting married but has no suit. Valèry has had to lend. He and Conrad, the disease expert (also present and a dedicatee), are to attend the wedding then retire to a boutique hotel at some remove.

Rufus himself veered superbly between high and low. One minute High Table, the next Hello! magazine. He is one of the few left with conversation.

You’ve probably been screaming – WHERE? Where was the fucking dinner held? Naturally Rufus homed in on the only place with any height in the dingy student and one-night-cheap-hotel quarter near Gay’s the Word Bookshop, Bloomsbury, where he had made a pre-dinner appearance. It was the Norfolk Arms, Leigh Street, greatly liked by the party.

Rufus’s fume, if you have not studied the comments department, was Pour Monsieur by Chanel.

Now I am leaving for Die Walküre which is being cast live from the Metropolitan Opera New York at 5pm UK time in what will almost certainly be the greatest live performance of our lifetimes.

Posted Saturday, May 14, 2011 under Adrian Edge day by day.

8 comments

  1. Tree Purslane says:

    The Norfolk Arms – blimey, that takes me back. It was famous back in the day as a seedy sort of place where hospital porters from the Middlesex used to trade body parts.

    Speaking of which, Portia Barker’s enquiry under the previous entry reminds me of the judge’s questioning of the jeweller in the Argyll divorce case. The jeweller was asked to examine closely the notorious “headless man” fellatio photograph.

    “Ignore, please, the erect member. Ignore the Headless Man. Concentrate, sir, on the ring. Is that your handicraft?”

  2. wilbur Wang says:

    now I really do not like your use of the f – word

  3. Adrian Edge says:

    You are quite right to point out the lapse

  4. Adrian Edge says:

    Well, the Norfolk Arms has now been re-thought and offers acceptable organic-style dining in a Salisbury-like environment. You must remember the Salisbury, in St Martin’s Lane, in its day. It is now a tourist attraction, heritage Victorian pub, plush, engraved mirrors and brass. Is that right? Nicholas Taudevin will surely tell me I’ve entirely mis-remembered.

    Miss Portia, by the way, is a mistress of the Poor Little Rich Gay non-sequitur (not sure how to spell).

  5. Portia Barker says:

    Tread carefully, dearest Adrian, as you may be in breach of something and your address is known to my solicitors. I deny it like Jemima and Gabby did this week. It is rather unpleasant and monstrous and even boring, Luckily this isn’t your latest post so my mother probably won’t read this comment.

  6. Adrian Edge says:

    NOTICE FROM PAPERS AND PAINTS, SOLICITORS TO POOR LITTLE RICH GAYS HERE AND THROUGHOUT THE WORLD: Malicious allegations have been made against Miss Portia Barker. These are unreservedly withdrawn as monstrously untrue and monstrous in their monstrosity (spelling?). A donation of £2.8 billion has been made to Miss Portia’s favourite frock and necklace charities

  7. Nicholas Taudevin says:

    Dear Adrian Edge

    You are quite right about the Salisbury. It was terribly theatrical. Lots of omi palones. I first went there in the company of my cello teacher from school. He left the school under a fair-sized cloud to make a living playing in the orchestra pits of Shaftesbury Avenue and St Martin’s Lane.

    I say “my cello teacher”, but it now occurs to me that I never had cello lessons from him, or from anyone else come to that.

    N Taudevin

  8. Adrian Edge says:

    No ‘cello lessons! I can’t believe it. Miss Lamore Cellina certainly took them with remarkable results.

    In one of the Le Carre novels a prepper master was caught interfering with the boys. He was invited either to leave or remain on half-pay. At Public, I was once in an appallingly embarrassing jam with the Physics master on a walking holiday in the Lake District. Which is probably why I thoroughy dropped both Physics and walking. On the way there we stopped off at the new-build mansion of a respectably married pilot friend of his. I’ve never forgotten the three-piece in sage-green moquette (not sure of spelling) with a peach ground.

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