How depressing is the news that Tony and Cherie Blair have bought the late John Gielgud’s magnificent Grade I-listed South Pavilion in Wotton Underwood, Bucks, as their sixth — count’em– home for a small matter of £4million?

What will the Blairs do there? They will probably host community massage conferences with their health and beauty consultant and inveterate Bill Kenwright first-nighter Carole Caplin, whose chum Peter Foster, a convicted conman, helped buy the Blairs two flats in Bristol as part of their property portfolio.

Gielgud loved his house, and its gardens, and the extravagant rococo interiors that the Blairs will probably overlay with flock wallpaper and cheap curtains. It is a symbolic and deadly appropriation of the nation’s culture, and not half as witty as Julian Clary’s purchase of Noel Coward’s Kentish country retreat, Goldenhurst, which I’m sure he treats beautifully.  

When I visited Gielgud there at the time of his Prospero’s Books movie he was full of wonder at how so many of today’s actors were so intelligent and wrote books, citing “Sher and Shallow, I mean, Callow.” And at that time, we had not heard all that much in newspaper slots from the likes of Michael Simkins, Imogen Stubbs, Julian Fellowes or even Steven Berkoff. Now you can hardly escape them. 

And as for Julian Clary, am I alone in finding his fortnightly column (sic) in the New Statesman the funniest in print at the moment? This week’s chapter recounts a gig in a cowshed at Milton Keynes where he followed Dusty Springfield and Elvis impersonators on a “family entertainment” night.

Ignoring his hostess’s demand for “nothing blue” — a bit like asking Alan Bennett for “nothing clever” or Jonathan Ross for “nothing cheeky” or indeed the critics on Newsnight Review for “nothing dull” — Julian was emboldened by a brief tittering at his  opening salvo then spotted a woman in the front row eating chips and asked if he might have one.

“She obligingly offered me her polystyrene tray and there it was — a gift, a sign from God in my hour of need — a saveloy, pink and plump and steaming. I held it up to the light. You can imagine the rest.”   

This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 6th, 2008 at 3:45 pm and is filed under Michael Coveney. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.