Yes, I fear I'm having the slightest - the very slightest - bout of envy.
I learned, you see, this afternoon that an old colleague - a lovely person, really - has (and I can hardly write it down)... gotten an invitation.
An invitation to a party.
An invitation to a garden party...
A garden party... (I expect you've guessed by now)...
AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE.
[Brief moment to regain my composure.]
Oh, I know they're huge bunfights for thousands, and it almost always rains, at least a little, and the most you're likely to get unless you're a heroic ambulance driver or the absolute pillar for six decades of a particularly tricky Women's Institute chapter is a glimpse from a distance of the Countess of Wessex or possibly, if you're lucky, Princess Alexandra - oh, I know. But still.
And I don't think my colleague, the dear woman, is even particularly amused/interested/impressed or even mildly taken with or by the whole idea. She's the practical type and will probably spend more time considering things like how they work out the square yardage of marquee per guest than she will the millinery, the refreshments, or the salon favorites pumped out by the various bands dotted across that famous lawn.
In case you hadn't guessed, I'm dying.
Now, it's not that I've not had a social whirl or two of my own, you know, over the decades - I went to a party thrown by the Imperial Household in Tokyo once upon a time, and had a very nice morning tea with the King of the Ashanti in his cosy palace in Kumasi, Ghana. And of course I've had years of waiting around for various Sandlandian royalties to arrive (and then to leave - it's questionable which is more tedious). I've even, at the conclusion of our lovely private tour a year ago last winter, had a nice glass of the royal bubbly inside the Palace in question itself (albeit not, it must be admitted, in the company of anyone more august than our very nice tour guide, a retired curator from, if memory serves, the V&A). But oh, my dears... a garden party at Buck House is something else entirely. And you'll have the invitation to keep the rest of your life (framed, if it were me, and hung in the downstairs bathroom).
What's the grandest party you've ever been to? Cheer me up, kids - I can use the distraction.
It wasn't exactly a party, but R Man and I attended Evensong Services at Westminster Abbey. The joint was closing for the day and the guards were firmly shooing everyone out. We sort of timidly protested that we were there for the service and they immediately, and very deferentially, said "Oh, right over there," pointing to the choir stalls. I sat in the Earl Marshall's seat. The very highest of High Church. Hightum, in fact.
ReplyDeleteAnd I bet you forgot to wear your great-aunt's seed-pearl necklace in anticipation of such high estate...
DeletePosh parties? I've not been to many. However, I have met the Duke of Westminster (Britain's third richest individual). A very nice man. Jx
ReplyDeleteI would say that counts. Who are numbers one and two, in case I'm ever asked out?
DeleteWell, the British Royalty is worth approximately $34.8 billion, so I assume it's Her Maj and Prince Charles at #1 and #2 respectively. The rest of the leaders of "the UK's richest" list are actually Ukrainian, Russian or Indian apart from the owners of discount retailer Primark. Jx
DeleteAs a lad in my 20's, working in one of the sweatshop offices that power Old Broadway, I was invited to a Christmas party at the home of an Established Theater Professional. I walked in to our gracious host's apartment and found Ann Miller, Jane Powell, Kaye Ballard, Julie Wilson and Jane Connell in attendance. Sadly, at 25, I lacked the experience to make anything out of it at all and instead just tried to stay out of the way. Not a bad choice, really.
ReplyDeleteWell Kaye Ballard would have been a hoot to meet! For me, Hotel Lambert in Paris, at the time the home of a rather senior Rothschild (even saw the famous pink Faberge egg on the mantelpiece). Otherwise, like you Muscato, various parties with various degrees of sandlands royalty. Mere Liggett has more than once been to the mentioned garden party, but is very Hyacinth about it, amusingly desperate to let you know, but simultaneously turning up her nose at "all those people"...
ReplyDeleteNot having encountered Kaye Ballard in any context, professional or personal, is one great lacuna in my once-glam life, alas. Fortunately, I did see and even chat once with Julie Wilson, which almost makes up for it.
ReplyDeleteAnd it is a paradox, isn't it that something like a royal garden party is both so exclusive and so, given the vast range and large number of those invited, democratic. Encouraging, somehow, really...
There were a few nights at Feinstein's at The Regency that certainly felt like a grand party. True, there was no invite; we paid (rather dearly) to get in and have dinner. But there was one fine night where I chatted quite a bit with Hal & Judy Prince, and Frank Rich, and our sadly departed friend (and the evening's entertainment) Mary Cleere Haran. And Mr. Feinstein was there as a very congenial host.
ReplyDeleteThere was a party invite once to a New Year's Day open house at the home of a two time Tony winning Big Lady of Broadway. We dreamed of stars & names, darling, names. In retrospect, I'm not sure why. We are friends with said Big Lady, and she lives a fairly ordinary suburban family life when not appearing on stage or screen. So what we got instead of names was the neighborhood gang with a few local Broadway journeymen thrown in for good measure. It was warm and lovely, but hardly grand.
The grandest party? Certainly one of the fabulous ones we threw for ourselves when we were single, jubilant, insane, youngish gay things at the peaks of our powers. We had boundless energy and (somehow) time and money for themes, decor galore, lots of booze, and just enough madness to keep it all quite memorable.
There was the night the first of our crew turned 40 when most of us were still closer to 30. His birthday was Valentine's Day. A friend provided the cavernous cafeteria at his business as party central. It was needed for the 75-100 in attendance. Everything was red. Hearts on everything. There was a DJ. We did shifts tending bar. There was a stripper. I corralled a few of my pals to be back up singers, and we made an appearance in matching dresses (mine was red sequins, my three gay-relles were in blue), boufant wigs, and heels to lip synch to some girl group tunes. The evenings performances were introduced by a friend in a tux doing a rather fine Sammy Davis Jr. At some point many of us were brought together and seated for a formal picture of the Russian Royal Family. To this day, I am called Anastasia (little 'Stasi to my dearest). There was two-stepping and line dancing. It was the mid 90s, and the country thing was all the rage in our gay sphere at that time. There was one comely fellow who came as one friend's date and managed to be caught in flagrante delicto with not his date, and not one, but two other guests over the course of the night. There may have been a fight. There was lots of kissing and petting and various couplings. In the wee hours, someone gathered up all the balloons, ducked out of the room, and reappeared wearing said balloons (and not much else), and proceeded to let those helium filled orbs fly, one by one, until he wore not much more than a sheepish grin. Just between us, that balloon boy might even have been me! There was too much food, and too loud music, and laughter, peals of laughter, and dancing until we were wet with sweat. The spirits were poured and our spirits soared. There was life, exuberant life, everywhere.
Twenty years on, we are scattered by time and distance across the country. Some of the ties of friendship are stretched rather thin. A few have broken. But we had a few shining years where we were all the greatest of friends and swirled in the center of a very special universe. We all helped each other - find jobs, move households, get through breakups. We vacationed together. We saw each other 3 and 4 and 5 nights a week. How our livers survived is anyone's guess. It was a ten year lunch. It was a black & white ball with a guest list of no-names. It was our suburban Studio 54. It was all too crazy and all-encompassing to last. But we burned brightly. We dazzled (well ourselves, at the very least). We squeezed every drop of fun out of those years. We had the time of our lives. It was all so grand.
Oh, Bill - that's lovely. I ran with a pack in my New York days that unfortunately imploded not long before I left the city in a festival of recriminations and appalling (even by our standards) behavior - but my God it was all great fun while it lasted...
DeleteI think I know who threw that party that Bill went to. There is only one big lady of Broadway who lives that kind of suburban life.
DeleteWell, you know Bill's no spring chicken - perhaps he ran up to Sneden's for one of Helen Hayes's big dos.
DeleteOr maybe we popped up to North Chatham for a more subdued fete with Shirley Booth.
DeleteIn 1987, I attended a party at The Four Seasons in the Seagram Building. It was a Grammy Awards after party given by one of the major record companies (as they were called then). And one of the very first things I spied was Liza Minelli talking to Jackie Collins. The 25 year old me nearly collapsed.
ReplyDeleteThe Queen has another garden party each year here in Edinburgh, at the Palace of Hollyroodhouse. Invitations are highly coveted, but most folk of note do get to go at some point, because attendance is limited to once in a persons lifetime. The setting and views are sensational.