DIARY JOAN COLLINS
Summer's almost over. Don't you feel you want to reach out and hold it back?' I couldn't agree with Jay Gatsby more. For weather, this summer on the Riviera has been exceptional — one day of rain since the beginning of June. We've had a couple of dozen house guests this season, and all, with one notable exception, were totally relaxed and easy-going. I was therefore vexed by Lynda Lee Potter's recent revela- tion in her column that I apparently 'turn on guests in a rage if they're not amusing enough'. Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, our guests are actively encouraged to be as languid as is humanly possible. Not for us the stretches and strains of tennis, golf, windsurfing or all- night parties. We're far too lazy, and a game of Scrabble with the hostess is about as competitive as it gets around these parts. We all love to watch videos after dinner, but sometimes it's quite difficult to get everyone to agree on one choice. Even then, more often than not, it turns out to be a classic. It's strange how many times every- one can sit riveted through Double Indem- nity, The Razor's Edge, Random Harvest, Some Like It Hot or Sunset Boulevard, no matter how many times they've seen them; if we play something more recent, half the guests nod off, even if they've never seen it before.
I'm sure every hostess, at one time or another, has had to entertain the house guest from hell. This year was our turn, but we all make mistakes and you can't win 'em all. This particular individual arrived, straight from his house in Washington, with one of his two suitcases bursting with dirty shirts and what Nanny used to call 'unmen- tionables'. His first act upon entering the house was to lay them at the feet of our housekeeper with a cheery 'Wash 'em, will You?' We all know from Miss Lewinsky that there are no decent laundries or dry-clean- ers in the nation's capital, but dark French mutterings were heard from en bas. Our guest then threw himself onto a lilo in the pool, clutching a large glass of rose to his hairy bosom. When I gently reminded him that, for obvious reasons, plastic tumblers were de rigueur around the pool, I was accused of behaving like a 'schoolmarm'. He made dozens of calls to America with- out using his telephone credit card, and vir- tually all the faxes which came in were for him, one running to 31 pages. `Bill me,' he winked. Another of his nasty little habits was continually to throw his cigar butts into the nearest available loo. In spite of repeat- ed flushings by whoever happened to be Passing, these objectionable objects would stubbornly refuse to wend their way to the septic tank. Naturally, some poor wretch would have to fish them out. Never him, of course — he would just repeat the whole process a few hours later. I think he'll find that next year's invitation has been lost in the post.
While on the subject of cigars, I was intrigued to read that Clinton had allegedly encouraged Miss Lewinsky to perform cer- tain unusual antics with a large Havana. Perhaps this will lead to her being referred to in future as the Count of Monte Cristo — give or take a vowel.
Oscar Wilde called England 'the native land of the hypocrite', but it seems that America is giving us a run for our money. I can't help feeling sorry for the President of the United States. While the world seems to be on a bobsleigh to hell, Clinton valiantly attempts to save his derriere. How Saddam and his cronies must be chuckling to see the most powerful country in the world turn itself into a theatre of the absurd for a seedy sexual soap opera. In France, most people can't see what all the fuss is about. Slick Willie's just doing what has always come naturally to most men of power, position and wealth. The pathetic part is that he should choose such indis- creet, fifth-rate co-stars. Paula Jones makes 'If the MCC accepts women I want to become a nun.' Barbra Streisand look like Liz Hurley, while the one who kept the cocktail dress looks like a young Vanessa Feltz in a black wig. As for the inappropriately named Mr Starr, Clinton's hatchet-faced Nemesis, it's a wonder that he hasn't been awarded some sort of medal by the enemies of the United States for his savage and relentless attempts to undermine and sabotage the country. That a sinister vendetta should have been allowed to mushroom into this farce is an outrage. Thirty hours of testimo- ny from Lewinsky about her supposed sexu- al shenanigans with the Prez? Who cares? And who needs Saddam's subversiveness when they've got Starr to derail the coun- try? America badly needs to save face, so they should let Bill Clinton get back to doing his job, even if he will always be remembered among presidents for one with a penchant for bonlcing trailer-park trash.
When I heard of the recent death of Akira Kurosawa, I was reminded of one of Billy Wilder's stories about him. In 1985 Billy, Kurosawa and a terminally ill John Huston had been asked to present the Academy Award for best picture, as a trio. Huston was to read out the nominees, Kurosawa to open the envelope and pass the card with the winner's name to Billy, who was to announce it and present the Oscar. All this had to be done at lightning speed to enable Huston to get off the stage and back to his oxygen mask. On the big night all went according to plan, until it was Kurosawa's turn to open the envelope. Having managed to open it, he couldn't seem to find anything inside, and was peer- ing and fumbling for what seemed like an eternity. Billy, whose wit is still the greatest on the planet, said he had to use every ounce of self-restraint not to say in front of an audience of some 800 million 'Pearl Harbor you could find.'
Now it's time to pack away the Ambre Bain de Soleil and leave this paradis ter- restre. I'm off to the wilds of Gloucester- shire to join Nigel Hawthorne and compa- ny for a spot of thesping. Trevor Bentham has written a delicious screenplay of The Clandestine Marriage, an 18th-century com- edy by Garrick. As Mrs Heidelberg I shall attempt to be suitably imperious, while trussed up in period corsets and a towering coiffure. It's bound to be a hoot, and I'm looking forward to the next seven weeks on location tremendously. In the meantime, I pray to the gods of good weather that they will smile on us, and hope that I don't trip over any electrical cables and shatter my 18th-century dentures.
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