High life
The prince and
the playboy
Taki
Southampton, Long Island There is a terrible joke making the rounds, and yours truly is the butt of it. It goes like this: What is the difference between Princess Di, Fergie and Taki? Answer: Taki likes his prince.
I'm also getting fan mail from gays, as William Norwich, a gay gossip columnist, repeated the libel from the Frog rag that had me being Prince Edward's lover. Nor- wich is a friend and a nice guy, but still, I wish the hell he hadn't written what he did because America is riddled with queers, and the ones who are not out of the closet are in it. And although I did nine years at boarding school, I'm probably the only male who did to get through unscathed. Now, at the age of 54, I'm accused of being gay, and with Edward to boot. It's enough to make one become hair-disadvantaged, (the politically correct way of saying pull one's hair out).
Mind you, it must be worse for the prince. He's probably as normal as I am, but for the rest of his life he'll be stuck with Taki in some people's minds. He's already hair-disadvantaged, so I suggest he takes out his frustrations by throwing a mineral companion (p.c. for rock) on the first pos- sessor of alternative body image (p.c. for fat person) who says 'Hello sailor' to him.
Otherwise, things have been hunky-dory. Well, not quite. Last Saturday I was sup- posed to be at Hurlingham, where the annual Louis Vuitton Concours d'Elegance took place, to which The Spectator's friends Jonathan Falkner and Deborah Bennett so generously invite the publisher and myself, but like a fool I ended up in the worse traf- fic jam since the one created by the French army fleeing the Panzers back in May of 1940.
Long Island is inhabited by two million slobs whose idea of a good time is to get on the Long Island Expressway and sit in traf- fic. Add to the two million another 100,000 nouveaux riches going to the Hamptons for the weekend, and you have it. I swore right there and then that I would sell my house immediately and move to Connecticut.
What made it worse was the fact that I could have been in Hurlingham watching beautiful cars and the astral Mrs Ogilvy, the former Julia Rawlinson whom I had the good luck to meet last year. I was about to hand the trophy to one of the winners, a Bugatti I believe, and while waiting for the owner I spotted the newly married Julia holding her husband's hand and a botanical companion (p.c. for a flower). So I offered the trophy to her (she is far prettier than the gent who won it), but she politely refused. I was hoping to repeat my gesture this year, but ended up staring out of the car window at some ghastly shopping malls instead. It is enough to become melanin- impoverished (p.c. for turn pale) just think- ing about it.
Needless to say, it was not all one big dis- aster. By going out to the frightful Southampton I realised how stupid I've been all these years. Never have I seen so many slobs on the beaches, and so many snobs asking each other, 'Who are these terrible people?' Personally, I prefer the slobs. American snobs are a contradiction in terms: people who can't even hold a knife and fork correctly but act the way upper-class people used to act in old Holly- wood films. Next week I will tell you about the most expensive .club in the world: 100 thousand smackers just to join. And it's in Southampton.
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