High life
My lucky day
Taki
Susan Gutfreund, Ivana Trump and Judy Taubman were in town last week and for one horrible moment I thought I was back in the Big Bagel. In a packed Annabel's bar rich and loud Bagelites were heard time and time again name-dropping Ascot and the Dorchester. These people must be slow learners. They should follow Mrs Gutfreund's favourite name-drop and mention nonstop Yacob, as in Rothschild. It is the perfect name to let fall at Ascot and Wimbledon time.
And speaking of Ascot, I went there for the first time in 17 years. Back then Charles Benson was as poor as he is now, and just as much in debt. We drove down together, along with the 7th Earl of Lucan, at the time still visible and under no suspi- cion. Lucky lived up to his name that day. He bet on a 10-1 runner called Mr Lucky, and it came in by a length. Lucan had £100 on it, I had £200 and Benson, the poorest, had £500. He never collected. The bookies simply subtracted.
The reasons I never went back were hay fever, company executives and Gulf poten- tates, in reverse order. Oh yes, I almost for- got, and the fact that Charles Benson got married and began to hang around with royals. Lucan, of course, topped himself that coming winter, which really meant the end of racing for the poor little Greek boy.
Needless to say, all this ended last week. Susan and Robert Sangster invited me to lunch on Tuesday, a lunch I almost missed when the Greek driver headed for Salonika instead of the M4. I realised we were head- ed the wrong way when I got out to buy some ciggies and the Rastafarians in Brix- ton laughed out loud at my gear.
The Sangsters are very good hosts. Not only was the food and drink fit for the Royal Enclosure, they also seated me next to the most beautiful girl by far in the whole of Ascot, the Californian Miss Victo- ria Tucker, alas a lass with eyes only for Lord White of Hull, also known as my old buddy Gordon. I bet heavily on the first two races, never coming close, but then old Benson came through. As did Majou, owned by a towelhead, but as brave a horse as I've ever had the good luck to have backed. Recouping one's losses always means it's time for hasty migration, although taking my leave was painful. I left behind three beautiful Sangster women and Miss Tucker, as well as my oldest Brit friend, Benson, who, incidentally, looked awfully handsome when standing next to the Maktoums.
Fresh from snatching victory from the jaws of the bookies, I hosted a little dinner chez moi that evening for Alistair Horne and his wife, as well as three Goulandrises, the third being Atalanta, who dragged along her fiancé and spoiled the evening for me. The following day it was lunch yet again, this time far from Ascot, but very near to the Dorchester. In fact it was Harry's Bar, and in the company of my NBF Lord Longford and Anne Somerset, whose book on Elizabeth I is out this week and from what I hear is a real winner.
What I enjoyed more than the excellent risotto was pointing out to Lord Longford that the place was full of ageing socialites. Libel laws forbid me to mention names, but loyal Spectator readers will guess who. They were all from the Bagel, all married to rich men, and all put the emphasis on the wrong syllable.
And now it's Wimbledon time. In the 14 years I've been writing this column I've yet to predict the winner, but this year my streak is about to end. At least where the weaker sex is concerned. Gabriela Sabatini is my choice. The men I find so objection- able — with the exception of Edberg that I do not care even to think about them. But next week I will discuss a noisy question: to grunt or not to grunt.
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