LONDON — Freddie Mercury left this world in 1991. But every December, he returns.
Not in spirit only—though there is that too. But in brown cardboard boxes, tied with ribbon, delivered to addresses across London. Inside: Fortnum & Mason Christmas hampers. The same luxury gifts Freddie personally selected for friends during his life. Still arriving. Still paid for. Still signed, in a manner of speaking, by the man himself.
Peter Freestone, Mercury’s personal assistant for the final twelve years of his life, has revealed the secret mechanism behind the tradition: a “perpetual contract” written into Freddie’s will that ensures the bill is paid and the hampers are delivered—every year, without fail, even from the afterlife.
The Tradition That Never Died
During his lifetime, Mercury was legendary for his generosity. Friends and staff received carefully chosen Christmas gifts, often from Fortnum & Mason, the upscale London department store that has supplied British royalty since 1707. The hampers—wicker baskets filled with champagne, pâté, shortbread, and other luxuries—were Freddie’s signature.
When he died of bronchopneumonia resulting from AIDS on November 24, 1991, those who loved him assumed the tradition died with him.
They were wrong.
“The first Christmas after he passed, we were all dreading it,” Freestone recalls. “Then the doorbell rang. There was the Fortnum’s delivery man with a hamper. We thought it was a mistake. But the card inside said ‘From Freddie.'”
The card was pre-written years earlier. The instruction in his will was absolute: the gifts continue.
The Perpetual Contract
Freestone, speaking publicly about the arrangement for the first time, explains the legal mechanism Mercury established.
“Freddie set up a trust specifically for this purpose. The money was invested. The instruction to Fortnum & Mason is permanent. Every year, without fail, the bill arrives at the trustee’s office, and every year, without fail, it’s paid.”
The list of recipients remains unchanged from the one Mercury personally approved before his death. Close friends. Longtime staff. Mary Austin, his lifelong companion and inheritor of his estate. Jim Hutton, his final partner. Freestone himself.
“The hampers are exactly what Freddie would have chosen,” Freestone says. “We sometimes joke that he’s still doing his Christmas shopping. And in a way, he is.”
The List and the Legacy
The exact number of recipients remains private, but those familiar with Mercury’s circle estimate between twenty and thirty people receive the annual gift. Each hamper costs several hundred pounds. The cumulative annual bill runs into five figures—a expense Mercury’s estate has covered for thirty-five years without interruption.
“It’s not just the money,” Freestone emphasizes. “It’s the thought. Freddie knew he wouldn’t be here. He planned for that. He wanted us to know, every Christmas, that he hadn’t forgotten us. That he wouldn’t forget us.”
The tradition has survived changes in trustees, fluctuations in investment returns, and the passage of decades. It has outlasted some recipients, who’ve passed away themselves. Their names, presumably, remain on Freddie’s list—the gift continuing to those who survive them.
More Than a Hamper
For those who receive them, the hampers carry weight far beyond their contents.
“Christmas morning, we gather,” Freestone says. “And before we open our own gifts, we open Freddie’s. It’s become a ritual. Someone will say, ‘I wonder what Freddie sent this year.’ And we’ll unpack it together. The champagne. The Stilton. The little jar of things. And for a moment, he’s there.”
The card inside changes each year—not the message, but the sentiment. It’s a standard Fortnum’s card, selected by the store. But the name printed on it never changes: Freddie.
“There’s no note in his handwriting after the first year,” Freestone acknowledges. “Those ran out long ago. But we don’t need one. We know what he would say.”
Why Reveal This Now?
After decades of privacy, Freestone’s revelation offers a rare glimpse into Mercury’s meticulous planning—and his enduring love for those who surrounded him.
“People think of Freddie as this larger-than-life showman,” Freestone reflects. “And he was. But he was also the person who remembered your birthday, who asked about your mother, who made sure you were looked after. This—” he gestures, as if toward an invisible hamper “—this is that Freddie. The one the public never saw.”
The tradition continues, year after year, as long as the trust endures. And Fortnum & Mason, discreet as always, neither confirms nor denies its role in rock’s most enduring Christmas story.
The Ghost at the Feast
At Christmas gatherings across London, in homes where Freddie Mercury once laughed and drank and held court, a brown box arrives each December. Inside: champagne for toasting, shortbread for nibbling, pâté for spreading on toast.
And somewhere, somehow—in the clink of glasses, in the shared memory of a voice that filled stadiums, in the quiet moment before someone says “Remember when…”—Freddie Mercury remains.
Every year. Without fail.
The bill arrives. The hampers are delivered. And the show, in its quietest, most personal form, goes on.
Freddie Mercury left the world thirty-five years ago. But every Christmas, he comes home.
