New York Thank God my poor daddy isn't around. After all the publicity about my parties he would have died of shame. When I was in my teens he hoped against hope I'd go into politics, but I went for sport instead, and unsuccessfully at that. Later on he encouraged me to enter the business world, but I chose a profession one step above that of a whore. Now I find myself described as a party-giver, surely a label worse than that of a hack or a prostitute.
Mind you, after the Sunday Times article about my New Year's Eve party at Mor- timer's, I ain't so sure. Whether a hack is considered better than a whore, that is. Never in my life have I read a piece in a serious newspaper that contained so many mistakes, in fact even more than I have ever committed in print, and that's saying something. The contributors were one Roddy Martine and Mangal Kapoor, both of whom sure mangled the facts.
I'll be brief. Their first mistake was to assume that I was elated by my inclusion in the ST's list of Britain's best bashes. I was not elated because I was unaware that my Savoy party had been included. I did not co-host my Mortimer's party because that is what girls usually do. Or Englishmen. The mangling Kapoor states that the PR queen of New York was at my bash, one Norma Matalon. She was not. I do not know her and do not care to meet her. They also wrote that my guests were not in a dancing mood. I beg to differ. They danced non-stop until six a.m., when the band — who were obviously high on something Latin — finally stopped. I had asked them to quit at four a.m. but they played on for free. 'Diego del Raya, son of the Spanish Ambassador' does not exist. Diego del Vayo, son of the last treasury minister of the Spanish Republic over- thrown by Franco, does and was at the party. The owner of Mortimer's is Glen Birnbaum, not Len, and the reason he locked the doors was that he wished to keep uninvited people out. The ST hacks wrote that we locked the doors to keep my guests from leaving early. Last but not least, Carolina Herrera wore a 'silk blouse and burgundy cocktail skirt' at the Queen's bash in Buckingham Palace last month, not at my dance. I guess the boys got me confused with the Greek who lives with the Queen. Oh well, it could be worse.
Needless to say, making mistakes when writing about such superficial happenings as parties is hardly the end of the world, but one does begin to wonder if the rest of the Sunday Times is as inaccurate as the style section. I hope not, although I do believe Andrew Neil should be immediate- ly fired for incompetence in not catching the mistakes concerning Taki's party.
As for the rest, it's been hunky-dory, except for the nervous breakdown of the television hacks over the impending war. All night long Americans are fed pictures of grieving relatives of those who have `died for oil' (the unfortunate sailors who drowned in Israel). Then President Bush announces the date of his surprise attack on Iraq, followed by some anti-war creeps trying to relive the glory of the Sixties. What a way to prepare for war.
Yet because of the awfulness of the Saudis and Kuwaitis — imagine not allow- ing Christian services for those about to die for them — I have suddenly become a dove. I never thought it possible, but nor did I ever imagine I'd end up a male Elsa Maxwell.