It's a good job I’m saving my last supper for when I actually get through Heaven’s Gates, because most of my guest list are up there already: Judy, Colin, Polly, Anton, Brian and Theresa can all be relied upon to get the party going, while my grandma is sure to bring some genuine grace to proceedings. Marc Bolan duets with Jeff Buckley, F Scott Fitzgerald dances with Byron,
Christopher Isherwood is having a smooch with Divine and Freddie Mercury is – well, just being him; what more does he need to do?
Once the dead guys have set the scene (velvet and organza everywhere, champagne flowing through crystal fountains), those on earth get to hitch a lift beyond the clouds with my dog Jazz, who’s grown wings, Pegasus style. And now, here comes The Family, in all their messy glory, with dad and mum reunited for the occasion, putting their double decade of other-partner
duelling behind them (which means she’s allowed to bring her husband). Loved ones - Dalto accompanied by my beautiful man, Michael - arrive bearing chocolate truffles from Rococo (I'm dead anyway – I can eat sugar again) while the heroes - Dave Eggers, Rufus Wainwright, David Bowie, Bret Easton Ellis and Douglas Coupland – all lounge around looking louche. And still, I’ve saved the living best till last: Gordon Ramsay is, of course, doing the food – and he can cook whatever the f*** he likes.
All of life is synaesthetic; death just makes the colours taste better.
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