High life
Natural friendship
Taki
ThNew York e first friend I made when I arrived in the then merry old England during the swinging Sixties was a cherubic, incredibly pink, forever laughing and joking Old Etonian called Charles Benson. Bendix, as we called him, after his nom de plume as racing correspondent for a then major newspaper (now a downmarket porn sheet) was no hooray Henry. He commanded a position of respect among gamblers because he topped John Asp mall's suicide stakes list for three months running, an unheard of achievement. The suicide stakes were for real. Aspinall used to post the list every Friday, giving the odds. However, there was an inherent weakness in the whole business. Aspinall assumed that a man who lost everything, or was hopelessly in debt, would commit suicide. The trouble was that none of the people on the list minded being in debt. After a white people stopped betting. The heavy favourite, Benson, and the perennial runner-up, Daniel Meinertzhagen, I am happy to say, are still around.
When I look back, our friendship was as natural as that of Blair and that Levy fellow. (Both are hustlers and bullshit artists.) Benson loved gambling, women, food and booze. I loved women, gambling, booze and sport. We've never had an argument, no less a fight, in over 40 years of comradeship.
Although pink and cherubic, Benson pulled some incredible-looking birds, most of them titled, blonde and rich, (He was even named as correspondent in the divorce of the Aga Khan, no small achievement). At present he is not feeling his best, lying semi-paralysed. But I'd rather tell you of the good times.
Benson's mother was a formidable lady who gave even more formidable lunches in her house on Cliveden Place every Sunday. She was quintessentially English, so much so, in fact, that she had never met a for eigner before yours truly. The first time I came to lunch, circa 1962, she greeted me rather suspiciously, and after a drink or two we sat down to lunch — roast beef and all that. She then addressed me for the first time. She pointed at her mouth and made a yummy sound, and said, 'Good lunch, you eat, yum, yum ' Needless to say, I took it rather badly, and told her in no uncertain terms that I spoke perfect English and did not need her pantomime. 'What, he speaks English'?' she spluttered.
Benson and I travelled the world gambling, whoring and playing tennis. He was a very good cricketer and useful in tennis. Although always broke, he was generous and an incredible spender. He drank only the best and dined only in the top establishments. In the famous South of France car accident with Jimmy Goldsmith, Mark Watney and Sally Crichton-Stuart (as the ex-Begum Aga Khan then was), Benson was the most seriously hurt but was totally ignored and left on the road by the French ambulance. When I asked him why, he matter of factly said it was because Jimmy was making all the noise, so they assumed the quiet one was all right. (Jimmy had a slightly cut little finger.) His stag party at Langan's was a riotous affair, still talked about by those of us who attended. I provided the hookers, and Benson's jockey friends went berserk. (That is the night I met Jeffrey Bernard, a turf mate of Benson's.) Then his life changed. His wife Carolyn's father was a friend of the royals — Nigel Dempster dubbed him polo-stick-in-waiting — and Charlie soon was hanging out in places such as Balmoral and Sandringham. I felt abandoned and wrote about it in these pages. In fact, I called him a social climber. Here is his answer, published in The Speccie on 24 January 1981:
The poor little Greek boy has got it wrong again. I must advise Taki that, more than 200 years ago. wicked Ralph Benson was gadding about with the Prince Regent and, indeed, married one of his girlfriends. At much the same time Captain Riau, another direct ancestor, was the hero of the Battle of Copenhagen, in which he was Nelson's righthand man and was, sadly, killed. And my grandmother was a Cholmondeley (pronounced Chumley, Taki). Unfortunately wicked Ralph blew the family fortune on gambling and racehorses. No, Taki, it is Mick Jagger, Robert Sangster, Bryan Ferry. the Aga Khan and my wife who are the social climbers in cultivating my friendship; hut I don't mind! My family tree was flowering when Taki's ancestors were swinging from an olive branch.
Charles Benson is a man straight out of a Simon Raven novel; in fact he's like the great cad, except for his love for women rather than boys. I love him like no one else, and am flying over to see him. If the worst comes to the worst, it will be people like Robert Sangster, Sam Vestey, Bryan Ferry, Nigel Dempster and myself who will be the losers.
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