High life
Forgotten era
Taki
It was ten years ago this week that the ex-sainted editor of the best-written week- ly in the English language, Alexander Chancellor, decided to give the opposition a chance and asked me to write a regular column dealing with the lifestyle of those people whom F. Scott Fitzgerald thought were different from most of us. Until then I had appeared in the Spectator only when reporting on the low-life shenanigans of my countrymen in the Olive Republic.
Ten years is a long time to be in Pentonville, but they sure go fast in Annabel's. In fact they went so fast I feel like imitating Jeffrey Bernard and taking out a full-page ad asking for information on my whereabouts outside Annabel's these past ten years. What I do know is that when I started the column the present sainted one was still at my old school, Richard Hartley was just as boring, my little girl was not even a year old, the mother of my children was looking forward to becoming Mrs Taki, Jeffrey Bernard's liver — as well as my own — was two thirds smaller than it is at present, Arthur Scargill was just as ugly, Melina Mercouri just as silly, the Elgin Marbles were in their rightful place, Rhodesia had her rightful name, and I was numero uno in karate in the birthplace of Alcibiades, and number four in tennis. I was also on the right side of 40. Most importantly, however, is the fact that back then I did not have a son and heir to my debts, and least significantly I was ten times richer than I am today.
Which goes to show that money only makes a difference when one prefers to drink at Annabel's rather than the Coach and Horses — or to be driven down to Bournemouth by a chauffeur in a stretch limo rather than taking the train. Which I did last week in order to attend the Spectator party. I am not a regular train user, and I must admit I was pleasantly surprised the night before Bournemouth when I went up to Oundle School to address their law society on the subject of defamation. Mr Michael Aubrey, an En- glish teacher at the school, had had the idea of inviting the greatest expert on libel in the English-speaking world to give the prospective lawyers of the society a lecture on what to look for in order to enrich themselves later on. I was given a sump- tuous dinner beforehand, and then I gave an extremely solemn speech describing the various minefields I've had to negotiate while writing the truth about the rich and infamous. My message to them was brief and to the point. If they are defending a libel case in which the judge gives the impression that if he took part in an orgy he would choose to make love to his own wife, settle immediately. If they are repre- senting the plaintiff, go for broke. And vice versa, of course.What impressed me about Oundle was the friendliness of the boys, and the way they laughed at some of my off-colour jokes about the most hon- ourable profession since the oldest one. I also warned them about juries.
Oundle is a Northamptonshire market town, Georgian in architecture, and one of the oldest schools in England. On my way back I was the only person in the train from Aberdeen, and made it back to London in 50 minutes flat. The next day I took another one to Bournemouth, a much slower one that was one hour late getting in, thus forcing me to miss my appointment with the Cabinet that had been arranged by the Prime Minister herself to celebrate my ten-year tenure. I don't remember a lot about my stay because yet again I got very drunk during dinner with the sainted one, but I do remember very well that when I arrived at the party at the hotel where all the big cheeses were staying, I was strip- searched by the fuzz and liked it enormous- ly. I also think that I saw not a few Tory MPs going out the back way and coming in the front time and again in order to be strip-searched, and I even think I saw Sir Robin Day doing it, but I'm not sure.
What I do remember clearly, however, was Nicholas Soames pinching me, and me betting a friend that Nicholas will end up a Cabinet minister rather than just a silly old whip. Then there was a girl called Frances PHS with beautiful legs, Harry Phibbs who had gatecrashed (I would have thought he should have been guest of honour) and a few hacks falling asleep just as the dawn broke. What I don't remember is seeing the sea, but in the state I was in I'm not surprised. After all, when Jeff first went to the Big Apple he never once saw a skyscraper, or so he tells me. Next week I'll be back at the Big Onion, and will report to you on those people F. Scott Fitzgerald was so wrong about. But in the meantime, if any of you remember any- thing about these last ten years, let me know.
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