High life
Daddy knew best
Taki
Ihaven't followed this Martin Amis brouhaha, but when I read that his mar- riage had gone down Swanee, I remem- bered something my dear old father told me very long ago. We were in El Morocco, the best Big Bagel night-club of the time, and I was down from university. Dining with us was a Greek shipowner and his foreign-born wife, who needless to say was giving nothing away. In fact, all they did was hold hands and dance cheek to cheek. But daddy was not impressed. 'My boy is crazy about you,' he told her, 'you should go out with him.'
Although I begged for the ground to swallow me up, such was my embarrass- ment, the old boy turned out to be right. No sooner had her husband gone to the loo than she asked me to dance, and managed to give me a body massage while swaying to the rumba beat that Ron Ferguson never got in the Wigmore Club. Later on, after the scandal, I asked daddy how he knew. 'Easy,' he said, smiling, 'Never trust a cou- ple that neck in public.' Come to think of it, like so many of our politicians.
If memory serves, Martin Amis had gone public with his love for his wife while attacking nuclear weapons, so it didn't sur- prise me when I read about the break-up. Martin I've met a couple of times, but do not know. Nor have I ever met Isabel Fon- seca, the alleged object of his defection. What I do know is that she's a pretty and large lady, and he's small. And she was once in love with Andrew Gilmour, son of Lord Gilmour, when they were both at Oxford. That I understand, because An- drew is very good-looking as well as intelli- gent, but what I don't comprehend is why all the newspapers referred to her as a lit- erary figure. Press reports said that she's in the midst of writing her first book. Where I come from, one becomes a literary type after publication, not before. But I could have it all wrong. After all, I'm only a poor jailbird, and a foreign one to boot. One thing is for sure, however. If the large lady and the small gentleman are seen necking in public, look out, the end is near.
Otherwise everything is hunky-dory. This is going to be an extremely busy week, what with the sainted proprietor giving a blast for the high and mighty, Lord Worcester ditto, and then on to Paris for more fun and games. I have also been asked to do Desert Island Discs, and I'm looking for-
ward to inviting Sue Lawley on to my boat.
All this social activity may sound like fun, but it does have its drawbacks. Take, for example, a letter I received from a teenage girl by the name of Charlotte from Scot- land inquiring how to go about becoming rich without having to work. She also asked advice on some other matters which I thought very funny but inappropriate for a dirty old man like me to advise a young girl. So I had my secretary write her a for- mal and patronising epistle telling young Charlotte all about the joys of hard work and the satisfaction one gets from it.
Well, you know what they say about the young. They don't fool that easily. Char- lotte wrote back thanking me for my letter, but pointing out that it smelled of one writ- ten by a personal assistant, and what she really would like to know is whether I could help her become a high-class tart. She said that she reads 'High life' regularly but has not yet understood whether it is enjoyable to be an HCT.
The trouble is the letter was beautifully written, more grammatical than anything I've ever done, and showed great wit and humour. I think I might just divert up to Scotland and see for myself. One never knows. Charlotte might turn out to be my Beatrice, and if she is, you can bet your last VAT money I will not be necking in public or writing about how much in love I am. And she could even turn out to be a great literary figure. After all, as far as I know, Charlotte has not as yet written a book.
Previous page
