High life
Friend in need
Taki
The last time my friend Charles Benson was rich enough to have me to dinner was exactly ten years ago. For anyone unfamiliar with Lord Whelks's premier scout of the Turf, here is a brief resume of his colourful life. Benson first became known when, fresh out of my old school, he was posted as the hottest favourite to commit suicide in Aspinall's old club — which proved only how naive even Aspers was back in those good old days, because Benson was as likely to com- mit seppuka over loss of face to the bookies he owed thousands to as, say, Gaddafi is ready to extradite the St James's Square murderer.
This was in the early Sixties. By the early Seventies Benson was a hunted man, emerg- ing from a friend's flat only at night, sleep- ing in a different place every night, chang- ing girls as often as I change friends, and spending his time studying brochures of far- away tropical places. The bookies, you see, were finally after him, and hanging around Benson was as dangerous as being an American Intelligence officer in Greece. After all, bookies have been known to remove the kneecaps of the wrong people more often than Nigel Dempster has been refused entrance to Annabel's, or Sebastian Taylor has been blackballed at White's. Despite the inherent dangers, however, I stuck by Benson, dining and gambling with him, at times even venturing out in broad daylight in his company.
And for once I was not disappointed. When Benson struck it rich, the last person he thought of paying was me. (If he had I would have had a heart attack.) How did he do it? Easy. In 1974 Dunhill sponsored a backgammon tournament that was to be held on board the QE2, for the 32 best players in the world, with a first prize of $100,000. Now Benson was not among the first 32, his religion was all wrong for that, nor was I, not having learned to cheat in my youth, but he somehow convinced the sponsors to include us on board.
I shall always remember that trip because (a) it cured me of any nostalgia I had for transatlantic voyages and (b) it gave me the opportunity to think of raising a family once Benson became financially indepen- dent. I got over my nostalgia for sea travel because the QE2 was as terrible a ship as I had ever been on. The food and service were from the past, and by that 1 mean the kind of food they served to immigrants on steerage around the turn of the century. The service ditto. Benson, needless to say, came through. He won the first prize the night before we landed in Southampton. The gambling world being what it is, the news was leaked, and by the time we steam- ed in there were more than 2,000 bookies waiting on the dockside. Benson im- mediately got the message and disapPeared, disguising himself as a nanny (an old trick taught to him by a Turf Club lady-member, one Erica Nielsen), leaving me to deal with the motliest group of people this side of Samoa. The last thing I remember saying before being overwhelmed was, 'Gentle- men, you shall all be paid in due course.' As I said, that was back in 1974. Benson paid some of the bookies, got his two boys out of hock (I swear he had pawned them both to a childless couple) and then Pro- ceeded to get married. As a wedding present I decided to forget past accounts. Benson
was mercenary.
rHye . accused me of being Greek and Why am I dredging up past history• Because ten years after his first stroke of luck, the lady's lightning has once again struck Benson. About a month ago he won over £300,000, and this time, in order to make amends, had me to dinner at his new palatial house near Kensington Palace. He even produced some royals to make me feel more at home, two Jordanian princesses, and one Jordanian prince. Jordan is one of the few Arab countries I approve of, and its royal family the only one that has any balls' I must confess Benson's invitation moved me tremendously — so much in fact that I didn't mind when Benson's wife asked Me to clear the table afterwards. (If anyone is stupid enough to serve me, a Greek, M°I-1- ton Rothschild 47, instead of retsina, his wife is right to try and get something back.) The next night the Jordanian royals had me to dinner and that turned out to be one of my best nights in London. As I write this I am about to fly away to New York once again, this time for one month onlY• I am returning to play in a tennis tournament, and predict that by the time I'm back Ben- son will be once again Benson — i.e- broke and in debt to the bookies.
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