High life
Party politics
Taki
TNew York wo great parties back to back is as much as one can wish for nowadays, but with an upset election victory thrown in for good measure, the week turned into that imaginary condition called happiness. First the St Moritz bash. Tatler called it
the invite of the month, one that had the Engadine valley crawling with Hohenlohes, Borgheses, Santo-Domingos, Puccis, Fair- faxes and a recently out-of-a-job (she was Fergie's lady-in-waiting) Lucy Manners. It was to celebrate the wedding of Gioia Rossi, a German-Italian beauty to Carletto O'Donnell, an American-Italian financier. As the young couple reside in London, it was hardly an untravelled crowd that attended.
Three hundred guests lived it up in the Palace, that rococo-Gothic folly which is probably the best hotel in the world. The party began on Friday and ended late Sun- day afternoon, the piece de resistance being the dinner dance on Saturday night in the vast Palace lobby that had been trans- formed into a banquet hall worthy of the Goths.
An added bonus was the music, the Zero Heroes of Bop 'til you Drop fame, the best rock 'n' roll band since the early Rolling Stones. Not only do the Zero Heroes play great early Seventies music, they're also a hell of a lot better looking than the geri- atric freaks of Jagger's, and of a slightly better pedigree. (Three of the Seilerns are Austrian counts, and Sandro Sursock, a Colonna grandson).
One of the funnier moments took place when Marc Rich, the financier, met Clair- born Pell, the Rhode Island Patrician sena- tor. A joker introduced the nouveau Rich to Pell as one whose family had gone to America on the Mayflower. 'Oh yes, on which deck,' asked Pell.
Three nights it took to clear my head
'I'm going because Jim Davidson and Lloyd Webber are staying.'
from the Karamazovian hangover, and then it was time for the Speccie's benevolent proprietor's Savoy blast, the impending gloom of a Labour victory offset in my case by Kate Reardon, my date for the night. If Balzac is right, and the duration of passion is proportionate with the original resistance of the woman, I'm going to feel passion for Kate for a hell of a long time.
Almost as much as my spirits were buoyed when Paul Johnson announced a Tory victory before the first results, basing his forecast on the fact he had just seen John Mortimer take two enormous lobsters on his trolley. My spirits soared however when our former Fiihrer suddenly arrived, accompanied by Sir Denis and her son Mark. Never having met the leader, I slightly froze when my buddy Nicky Haslam took her by the elbow rather firmly and presented the little Greek jailbird to her. It was the second time Nicky had introduced me to a blonde, the first being to Lady Di.
One never wants to rub salt in the wounds, but I do think the election victory had to do with looks and nothing else. Kin- flock, poor man, has always been too red, no pun intended, as is Robin Cook. Then you had Gerald Kaufman and Roy Hatters- ley, people who need a pass to exit from a freak show. How could these poor guys win against the Tories, even without the likes of Sir Ian Gilmour and Alan Clark? JFK beat Nixon on looks, Mrs T wiped the floor with Heath on looks, Bush hung Dukakis out to dry on looks, even Harry Truman did away Dewey on looks. Labour should choose Kate Reardon and they'll win in 1997.
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