6 NOVEMBER 2004, Page 107

Double standards

Taki

New York Dn.& Lights, Big City, Jay McInerney's .0 breakthrough opus focusing on New York City yuppies, was published 20 years ago this month, and some of his idioms — such as Bolivian marching powder — have become part of the English language. I read the book much later because at the time of publication 1 was waiting to pay my debt to society for possession of marching powder, and the last things I wished to read about were things Bolivian. Jay and I have been good friends for a long time, and last week I trudged down to the Odeon, the cafe where most of the action in the novel takes place, for an anniversary blast given by Sonny Mehta and Gary Eisketjon, two great editors and two very nice human beings. I was not disappointed. The trouble, of course, are the hacks who were not around back then but who demand to know what it was like, Biros and notebook in hand. How can one explain a period in the midst of a fun party with some very pretty girls floating by? As told one pest who wished to know which of all the nights during the Eighties was the best, `If one remembers anything, one obviously did not have a very good time.'

Of course it was all a blur a very pleasant blur, however. The one thing I do remember is telling the beautiful owner of the Odeon, a lady back then married to a friend of mine, that the topless lavatory bowls in her restaurant were redundant, and she wanting to know why. Despite popular belief, there were some innocents in 1984, and she was one of them. It all seems very long ago, and I'm thankful most of us survived. At least the ones I saw at the party.

This is a very good time to be in the Bagel, especially as neither candidate for the presidency bothered to come and tie up traffic. Bagelites rarely vote for a Republican, and, if memory serves, in the past 100 years they've gone for a capital R president only five times, twice for Ike, twice for Reagan, and once for Richard Nixon over McGovern in 1972. New York is about the arts and making money, professions which are all about self-aggrandisement and celebrity, and nothing to do with understanding the moods or needs of the rest of the people.

Although the city is buzzing with prosperity, most so-called celebrities act as if they lived in Grozny. They whine and complain about the Patriot Act and the impending midnight knock, forgetting to mention that the knocks they hear are those of their dealers delivering goodies to their doorsteps. 'Outsourcing' is the operative word they go on about, yet most of the fashionable and extremely expensive clothes they wear are made in foreign countries by cheap labour. Ah, what would we do without the double standards of our celebrities? And, as Andy Warhol predicted a quarter of a century ago, everyone now has their 15 minutes of fame. Including Lizzie Grubman.

For some of you still in the dark about who is in and who is not in in the Bagel, Grubman is the lady who four years ago ran down 16 people with her SUV as they waited in line outside a nightclub because she had been refused a parking space by some dumb white trash of a parking attendant. 1-fer words, certainly not mine. Grubman served a month in jail and then hit the ground running as a celebrity. Her PR business became a great success and she will now be starring in a new reality show play

ing herself. So, for any of you celebrity wannabees, all you have to do is run some people down in front of a chic nightclub, do a bit of time, and hey presto. I suppose its called capitalism, but it could also be called Murdochism, or just plain bad taste.

Never mind. There is always Paris Hilton, who last week got into a brawl with another woman over their seating in a club. It made the papers, which was the reason for the brawl in the first place, which is what New York's all about. Publicity with a capital P. 1 know in Hilton's ma and pa, and they are true stage parents. When I read about the human Hobbit discovery in a prehistoric cave, I had an idea. If Paris could find someone who resembled the Hobbit, she would make the front pages for sure, but then I realised that Jack Straw would not play along, so I dropped it forthwith. Still, it's a pity. (Straw without his glasses is a real glamour-puss.) Having disparaged the city for the creeps it seems to draw, I must also praise it for what it has become in comparison with what it was. You remember it, the bankrupt, dangerous, graffiti-slathered, mugger-haven of the Seventies and early Eighties. It is now a cleaner, safer, treelined metropolis-playland inhabited by celebrity wan nabees, artsy-fartsy types and billionaire bullies, and I'll take that lot any day, even if some of them make the human hobbit look almost beautiful.