Tag: Christian Louboutin

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Hollywood

Adele

After a day of resting my poor foot Andrew and I decided to go to Hollywood.   Not particularly searching for a party but interested by the prospect.  We met my friend Samantha and her super cute actor friend for dinner.

Hollywood seemed unreasonably quiet after the VMA’s last night.  The Chateau looked busy, Sunset Tower was rockin’.  The SHLA  just right.  I have no idea where everyone was…but where ever they were I wasn’t with them.

We did, however, bump into Adele with whom I was uncharacteristically star struck.

She was surrounded by burly security men and has a booming, luxurious speaking voice, a huge presence.  Like a tiny field mouse I told her how wonderful she was and she in turn asked if I had any Marlborough Lights.

My briefest brush with Adele.

Now, I am kinda sick of being told that I am name-dropping every time I tell you who I meet or bump into.   It’s Hollywood!  The town is packed with names.  I am a small town British boy who, at those moments, wonders how he ever gets to have so much fun.

Whenever I tell you about who I meet it’s not to self aggrandize.  I thought you might be interested?  No?

I saw this:  a very drunk woman wearing Christian Louboutin shoes being hauled into a limousine by her uniformed driver.

Vomiting over the very same shoes that would have paid most of my utilities for a whole month.

The driver looked understandably perplexed.

There seems to be some confusion about my state of mind at present.  Just to clear things up: Despite my imminent trip to NYC to see Jake in court I am actually very content, happy even.  Part of that happiness comes from being at peace with the idea that…I am unlikely to ever have another relationship.  Ever.

Why?  Because I am impossible…that’s why.

That doesn’t mean I want to have a million hook ups…I don’t.   Let’s face it..I have always loved the fantasy more than the reality.   A real person by my side?  I can’t do it.

I know lots of straight batchelors my age.

As I said the last time I wrote my blog, having a boy friend would be like working in an office.  Do you know what I mean?  I am not that guy.  Unemployable maybe?  Probably.  Unloveable?  Well, probably not…but incapable of having a relationship.  Incapable of accepting love.

I am listening to Adele.  Remembering what it felt to be in love.  Thank God that’s over.  Like sticking your hand in the fire.

When I was a kid my Grandmother and I found a diamond brooch.  She handed it to the police.  All my life I couldn’t understand why she did that.  Now I do.

Meeting Jake was like finding that diamond brooch in the street.  It wasn’t mine to have yet I did not want to give it up.  It was beautiful and sparkled in the night.  But what’s a man to do with such a thing?  I couldn’t wear it.  I had to give it back.  Unwillingly.

So, I am happy.  Can you understand that?  I don’t think you can.

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Dogs Travel

Police Cell

Decided to stay an extra week in London.

Woke up at 11.30 this morning.  That is LATE for me.  Me!  Me who is usually up so early.  Anyway, we were going back to Whitstable today but I ended up spending the better part of my day at Chelsea Police Station.

Why?

You may well ask.

A drama unfolded at the house that included a cast of unruly, drunk children a lost iPod touch and me trying to enforce an adolescent exit strategy.  I mean, getting 5 unwelcome 15-year-old kids out of the house whilst Phil was at her Dad’s.  Anyway, it all ended up with me being arrested and taken to the police station and then being let go.

The short story is this:  I accused them of stealing an iPod touch.  They accused me of spitting at them, which is a total lie, but it had to be investigated.  So, I got cuffed and dragged to the police station.

Of course, our accusations were ignored.  Impossible to substantiate.

Firstly, can I tell you how utterly charming the policemen were in the station.  The  Desk Sergeant, the constables, the detective..all utterly considerate and thoughtful and even though I had to spend an hour in a cell it really did not matter.  Even the cell was clean, the toilet flushed and someone had stenciled a note for a drug ‘help line’ on the ceiling.

Much has changed since I was arrested 30 years ago.

Fingerprints are scanned, mug shots digital and every time I had to sign my name it was on a pad like you would find in a bank.  Of course there were the usual host of nutter types being held there but sadly, since the mental hospitals were closed down the police and prison service are used to hold the insane until they can be reclaimed by the broken mental health system.

The detective who interviewed me was really good looking.  Big blue eyes.

Now I just feel ghastly.  I felt like crying in the station.  How could this have happened?  That kind of sad moment.   In fact..I did shed a tear when the nice detective was interviewing me.  Had odd feeling of shame telling him that I was gay.

I felt like I was defending our honor against those kids.   They were HORRIBLE.

I am going to Victoria Station to help Jake and the Little dog who went off to Whitstable for the day.

More about this tomorrow.

Categories
art Travel

London Calling

Serpentine Gallery Pavilion Opening

Yesterday began with breakfast of cakes and coffee at Maison Bertaud on Greek Street with Tania who showed off her occasional gallery – very crowded with nondescript paintings by Noel Fielding.

The great find at the show was the animated video art piece tucked in the back of the cellar and REALLY worth checking out or indeed buying.

We had lunch at Patisserie Valerie and looked at the parade of boys and freaks.

Yesterday evening took taxi from Chelsea to Serpentine Gallery Pavilion opening at the behest of architect Tom Croft.  Saw many people from the past who all seemed delighted to see me.  The pavilion, designed by Jean Nouvel, was very red and surrounded by soggy turf.  There was some consternation about his eligibility – apparently the point of this yearly event is to commission emerging architects not those in the twilight of their career.

We were invited to Richard Rogers house after the Serpantine event but I really couldn’t be bothered so we caught the bus back to Soho where we met Matt who pushed us into a cab and over the river to Vauxhall.

Toured sad, empty Vauxhall gay bars ending up in Balans back on Old Compton St eating DISGUSTING burger.  I am going to pop in there after I have written this and complain about how bad it all was.

This morning I sat in BlueBird with, of all people, Manolo Blahnik who is looking very doddery and frail.  He has a stick and his hair is all awry.  Within the space of just one month Manolo and Christian Louboutin!  These two great..the greatest grandees of ladies shoes.  Christian is, of course, the young buck.

I have been away from London for the best part of a decade.  My contemporaries all look a bit worse for wear.  Worn out.  Thank God I have been sober for so long!

Spoke to Tim briefly today.  He admitted to having had botox.  He looks amazing.  Amazing.

On the bus to Soho I met Juanita Carberry who was a child in Africa at the time of the Happy Valley murder.  She wrote a book called Child of the Happy Valley.  Holly Aird played her in the film adaptation.  So, I know Holly and Issie’s grandfather was the murderer…weird eh?  What is even odder..Lavinia, Issie’s sister stayed at the house last night.

Lunch at Soho house with Sharon Marshall who is getting married in less than 8 weeks and is all of a quiver about flowers, bridesmaids dresses and who will photograph the event.

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Gay Hollywood Malibu

Human being/Human doing

Busy, busy, busy!   Fled, after my morning meeting, to the bank and Malibu and back again.  The misty garden smelling of jasmine and other, sweeter perfumes.  I love the way the garden evolves.  Wood chip paths and great forests of Euphorbia down where the goats will live.

Meeting with lawyer re. company in Santa Monica-where I also bought English chocolate and piccalilli.  Had stove and blender fixed.  Kept an eye on Blankstein grilling via NPR.   Even if it is just political theatre it’s fun to think that this most ghastly of all men-Blankstein is having to play the villain role for all to see.

Goldman Sachs is just another human empire and it will eventually fail as they all do-eventually.  It is the way we do things here on earth.

Human being/Human doing.

The Christian Louboutin party at the Robertson store with the great man in attendance (wearing lilac slacks) was a very friendly, if soulless affair.

‘A’ gays including the poisonous Peter Dunham with his age defying boyfriend the celebrity dermatologist Peter Kopelson-we often take time ignoring one another passing on Runyon Canyon.  Peter Dunham, hideously scarred by acne and HIV, making small talk at the edge of the room with similarly scarred reptilians.  Peter’s talentless, screeching ‘artist’ friend Konstantine Kakanias arrived bound in a flimsy scarf that did nothing to distract from his unusually fat face.   Oh how one loves to loathe.  The most amusing line from Konnie’s on-line resume- Second Prize, International Award for blah blah blah…who the fuck boasts about coming second?

As well as the gays, some of whom I liked by the way-none of whom were wearing CL shoes there was a contingent of Iranian women with huge asses squeezed into badly cut denim jeans tottering around on red soled CL hooker heels.   These dusky gals baying for their photograph taken with Christian who willingly obeyed as only a man can when he is selling most of these women over a thousand pairs of his shoes-each!  It was like a fetish party.  I didn’t recognize any of the women other than the ubiquitous Tracy Ross-saw her at Prada party too.  Dull.

One woman arrived in McQueen but the ensemble was so badly put together she looked like a Michael Jackson Halloween clone.  Sad.

There have been a glut of ‘recessionary chic’ soiree held in small stores across Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, usually with red carpet facilities but there was none last night.  Tomorrow will be the shoe-signing event when Christian signs shoes. My friend Jamie is going, one might want to link to her blog to find out how that went.

Dinner with Peter Scarf at the Mercantile before he went off to drink at some hip club somewhere.

Sweet, late night conversations with lamb head made me content and happy before I slept.  Oh, if only..