High life
Party animals
Taki
This is the time of year when I go over to the side of Moby Dick. Like cheering when the bull gets his horn into a Mexican matador's suit, or when the lion gets the hunter. The reason for my inhumanity to my fellow man is Christmas, the season in which no human frailty or misfortune imag- inable isn't underwritten by high-pressure charity organisations or by billion-dollar foundations with more money than they know what to do with. Not, however, where our four-legged friends are concerned. When was the last time a Christmas appeal came in for the animals? No homeless dogs have rattled the cup at me and I have yet to run into a bird wearing a Santa Claus suit and ringing a bell. So, if the rest of this space sounds misanthropic for a Christmas issue, it is all because of the animals.
And speaking of animals — party ani- mals — the fortnight leading up to Christ- mas is our nirvana. This year was no exception. It all began with Christopher Gilmour's bachelor party at White's, which deteriorated at Annabel's and finished up at Aspinall's. Sixteen old friends such as Harry Worcester, Jasper Guinness and Timmy Hanbury can make a hell of a lot of noise when entering a place en masse. Almost as much as the fuzz did when at 1 a.m. the following night the bomb squad arrived, dogs and all, interrupting probably the best party I've been to this year. It was given by Shariah Bakhtiar, nephew of the assassinated Persian premier and the man who knows more beautiful young girls than Hollywood has name-droppers. And they were all there that night, including the gor- geous Spaniard Miss Sartorius, rumoured to be the next Queen of Spain.
I sat at dinner with Jimmy Goldsmith, the more beautiful than Diana look-alike Nicola Fornby and an extremely attractive young woman who turned out to be also a Spaniard and married to boot. I made a stupid comment about how much I loved Franco (which I do) with no reaction com- ing from the Spaniards, and they all turned out to be cousins of Juan Carlos — Bulgar- ian royals — but with a sense of humour and looks to match.
Then, just as the Hansons and Whites and Imran Khans and Bryan Ferrys rolled in, the cops came to visit, forcing some younger members to panic and get rid of their controlled substances. But the fuzz was looking for bombs, as were the dogs, so the rest of the night was spent having real fun and with the loos being used for their original purpose.
The Spectator's benevolent proprietor's dinner came next, in which I had a great time listening to the wit and wisdom of Stephen Fry. I also managed to get engaged to both Susanna Gross and Petronella Wyatt during the evening — an early one, however, as I had had only two hours' sleep and was suffering from the shakes as well as the sweats. I guess that's why Lady Thatcher mistook me for Tariq Ali and sort of cut me.
Which is what Johnny Bryan should do to his losses. That is my unsolicited Christ- mas advice to him. It seems that Bryan is being accused of having tried to sell a story to the tabloids about Prince Andrew's lat- est squeeze. The girl involved is Hetty Hoffman — the trouble being she's not involved with Andrew, but he was circling, as they say in Casanova circles. Hoffman's flatmate, Cazzy Neville, is also being wooed by Andy, and the question is who will fall for Andy first.
If the tabloids are to be believed, Bryan seems to have jumped the gun. What is for
'The earth finally moved for him.'
certain is that the atmosphere in the two girls' top floor flat in Earls Court will be as frigid as that down in Norfolk while Di and Fergie are there. The rest of us should count our blessings for not being courtiers.
A happy Christmas to you all.
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