Ah, the end of the year is upon us, and that leads to party season. It’s hell, I tell you. Sheer hell: forced to drink champagne at all hours, dance till dawn with beautiful and elegant ladies in clubs that have very large doormen and very small nameplates, and eat sublime delicacies in some of the world’s finest restaurants. Anyone who claims that we British know nothing about food really hasn’t been paying attention. I grant you that once we had a slightly laissez-faire attitude to our cuisine but the changes on the restaurant scene are such that I can eat exceptional food constantly without fear of repeating myself in a different restaurant every day of the year.
Sheer hell, I tell you.
What makes it worse is that a lot of this happens on other people’s expense accounts, so there isn’t even the safety catch implicit in having a champagne fund to run out. One fellow buys dinner, another calls for wine,another for cigars and before you know it you’re facing a feast of mediaeval proportions that would make one of my noble ancestors worry about being thought of as over- indulgent. These things even come with a cabaret: the great receipt scramble at the end is most amusing, as everybody wants to claim it for expenses and justify an increase in their bunfighting budget. I feel that these poor ladies and gentlemen of the publishing world need my help in such a great task, so I am happy to lean back, fire up a Romeo and reach for another decanter of port.
 But the weekend I have decided to share was a rare thing: one that came out of my own pocket. It all started at a wedding the weekend before, where I’d been asked to officiate (one of my less frequently seen roles – it’s probably better if you don’t ask). My dear friend Caro, who’d taken on the job of organising things, mentioned that her husband was technical director of a multimedia performance art show premiere thing that was itself going to be filmed as part of the finished piece, and since she knew of my fondness for art would I like to come?. This I had to see, since the Ouroboros-like ability of modern art to swallow its own tail fascinates me and the description of multimedia performance in a derelict industrial unit had me hooked. I went home, spent the week alternating between finishing revisions on my next book and running roughshod over the expense accounts of all and sundry like a rampaging horde of nicely-dressed Visigoths, then sobered up just in time to discover myself heading for Luton on a wet Saturday afternoon.
Those of you in former outposts of our glorious Empire may well not have heard of Luton, or if you have it’s most likely to be as a reference to the nearby airport. This is not a state of affairs that should worry you, I promise. A former millinery town, Luton is best described as, well, grey. It has a couple of very nice pubs, a truly splendid curry house and a pretty good beer festival, but the only thing that could possibly get me to set foot inside the town limits is the presence of a surprising number of my friends who reside there for reasons so occult I have yet to determine or understand them.
The event was due to have a bar, but Caro had advance information on the stock list. In the interest of self-defence we immediately acquired a couple of bottles of Taittinger and a small selection of light foodstuffs that could be thrown to distract any starving artists who might wish to tackle me on the subject of patronage or tap into the pop supply.
To call the performance-multimedia-art-premiere-filming-event-thing under-attended would be to stretch my powers of understatement almost to breaking point. I was horrified by the number of people who’d said they were coming and then flaked at the last minute. Truly dismal, and rude as all hell. There seems to be an attitude in the art world, and in the underground scene, that if a thing doesn’t happen in the East End of London then it doesn’t happen at all and I’m completely sick of it. It reminds me of the reaction I sometimes get at parties when people find out that I make up stories for a living: “Anything published?” they ask with a sneer. I dissemble, say there are a couple of things out there, and let them deal with the embarrassment later when they find out about the radio shows, the books and everything else. It’s terribly entertaining to watch someone go from looking down their nose at you to the sudden realisation that you’re more successful than they are. But the situation was maddening: the artist (a Miss Tracy Caine) had obviously worked herself half to death getting it all together, and she was more than a little disheartened by the poor turnout.
As Miss Caine, Caro and I were discussing this, a vision walked across the floor towards us: tall, blonde beautiful and walking in a way that could make a fellow’s blood pressure do some astonishing things.
'Aren’t you going to introduce me to this incredibly well-dressed man?' she asked, purring in an accent that was obviously American but which managed to span both coasts – Boston vowels on a Bay Area drawl. Suddenly I was very glad indeed that I’d chosen to attend.
What else can I say of that evening? Music, dancing, fun and conversation. I bought a couple of paintings for the collection and even took a turn behind the microphone for a couple of songs. A thoroughly good time was had by all. Best of all, the charming young lady agreed to accompany me to another little thing I was planning to attend on the Monday.
I’d planned to mess around with aeroplanes on the Sunday afternoon, but the weather was horrible so I stayed in Luton with Caro and her husband Matthew, heading back to town on Monday morning. Then it was into the bath, into a dinner jacket and off to meet my companion for the evening. I will not bore you with too many details, but she’d judged things perfectly and her gown suited her well enough to stop traffic. I thanked as many relevant deities as I could think of and led her off to Mayfair for the launch night of the Whoopee private members’ burlesque club. Whoopee have been running burlesque nights for a few years now, and were very much at the forefront of the revival in London. Several of the performers are also friends of mine, and it’s always a pleasure to watch them at work. There was music and dancing, and a bar that made my wallet cry, but what import has mere money when a lady’s happiness is concerned?
The evening’s acts included two of the great stars of the London burlesque, Lily White and Marisa Carnesky. Marisa manages to be a successful artist, director and conjurer as well as a dancer, and Lily… Well, Lily is quite possibly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, with a wicked smile to make Helen of Troy give the whole thing up and spend the rest of her life wearing a paper bag over her head. The artist Rosie Cooper, a dear friend of mine, continued her transfer from performance art into dance, and even the chorus line were of a standard that would be considered soloists anywhere else. The penguin waiter was… let’s say ‘arty’. We danced, and talked, watched a wonderful show, and enjoyed the evening immensely. My application for membership is being considered even as I type this, and I shall be thoroughly disappointed if it is not approved. I certainly wouldn’t say no to more of the company, either.
The last words we heard heading away were of another party, and how everyone simply had to come. But that was another weekend, and perhaps the subject for my next letter.
|
