John Gaze (1947 – 2011)

It hardly seems possible that my friend, larger than life John Gaze, died this year. We met many years ago when he lived in Fournier Street on what I would describe as the ‘other side of the tracks’, the posh side of Brick Lane. At the time I was a Labour Councillor serving Spitalfields ward. Most of the people who contacted me lived in overcrowded conditions and depended on benefits. John contacted me seeking assistance for his temporary lodger.

I recall our first meeting where he probed my politics with some alacrity. I assumed from the outset that he was deeply Tory but soon found that he defied classification. He was capable of damning both Tory and Labour politicians (something we both had in common). I often teased him about his involvement with livery companies and City institutions. He barely tolerated this but was happy for me to wind him up about his membership of the Carlton Club. I dined with him in his different clubs as he regailed me with anecdotes regarding the antics of members he introduced me to. It amused him to introduce me as ‘a socialist from the East End’ – an acolade I never objected to; for himself he enjoyed the label of a ‘Piccadilly shop keeper and grammar school boy’.

John was keenly aware of the class system in society and was dismissive of public school education.  On the other hand he freely admitted his desire to be accepted by the establishment but never sought to hide his sexuality within the walls of the deeply conservative City Establishment.

John’s appeal was in his contradictions. He was able to drop names without a hint of vulgarity: moving effortlessly from his recollections of Elton John in the 60’s to Edward Heath in the 80’s. Following his kidnapping in Spitalfields he moved to the Albany in Piccadilly, a place he had always wanted to live in. He recalled asking his father about the Albany when they passed it in his childhood. His father described it as “a place for gentlemen” and John told his father that one day he would live there.

His role as Parish Clerk of St Michaels Cornhill ensured his acceptabilty at the elite address but eyebrows were raised when a fundraising party for people with AIDS was hosted by a well known drag queen. Letters weren’t sent to the Times but an article appeared in the Telegraph. He cursed whoever leaked the story but also had the cutting framed.

He bought me a portrait of Lenin from the former Soviet Union. On the day I was to pick it up he was walking down the corridor at the Albany with Lenin as his neighbour the politician Alan Clark approached him. “Where the fuck are you taking that?” he said and John reassured him it was destined for a less salubrious address in Whitechapel. Whenever I look at the painting I always think of John, his contradictions, generosity, magnificent wine cellar, the Church of England and likewise its myriad contradictions.

I will miss nights of Tchaikovsky, stories from Russia, fine port and Fortnum & Mason pork pies. The last time I saw John he told my partner Hazuan to make sure he looked after me; John was always on the look out for his friends but had a cavalier attitude towards his own health. His prolific consumption of cigarettes and alcohol mirrored his bohemian embrace of life. He once told me that the death of a close friend was like losing part of yourself. How right he was.