Party time
Taki
The trouble with throwing a party is it only lasts for a few hours. Compared with the time and effort it takes to organise, it seems, well, a waste of time. John Aspinall spent months preparing the extravagances he used to stage at Howletts and Port Lympne, his perfect Palladian structure near Canterbury. At one of his parties, the staircase was festooned with dwarfs, while acrobats and wild animals roamed around the rooms. I remember playing chemmy next to Tina Onassis, or Blandford, as she then was, and a large tiger making an entrance and sniffing the green felt table. Tina fled to the loo. I was too embarrassed to do likewise and called banco instead. I was too nervous to notice whether I won or lost. All Aspers’s parties were centred on a theme or one of his heroes, people like Mithridates or the Diadochi or Cuauhtémoc, the last emperor of the Aztecs. The expense and attention to detail at each feast were enormous. I once told him that gamblers were ignorant types, and the name of Mithridates was as likely to be recognised by them as that of Theotokopoulos (El Greco to us art lovers). Never mind. The pleasure was in organising the bash.
My party at Annabel’s was nothing of the sort. I flew in an orchestra from New York, one which played only Gershwin, Cole Porter and Rodgers and Hammerstein tunes. Anything after 1956, I don’t pay, I told Alex Donner, the true successor to Lester Lanin and leader of the band. The trick, of course, is to have lotsa young people coming in after dinner. And a change of pace. This was provided by Jackson Scott, a fantastic flamenco guitarist whose new band of youngsters kept us dancing until five a.m. Many of the oldies had departed by then. My Greek friends ditto. They thought the party had come to an end as the bands were changing. Just as well. Eighty young people had come in with a vengeance and they needed room to roam. At one point I went to the outside bar and noticed an Italian lady whom I know slightly. She was not invited but I was nevertheless happy to see her. Until she cut me, that is. I almost felt like saying something, but I was too far gone by then. My problem continues to be the same. I drink too much in nervous anticipation, and then become like maple syrup. Too nice by half. I often wonder what it would be like if I turned yobbish and violent, like so many Brits do after having one too many. Perhaps more interesting, I imagine.
The reason for my party was having turned 70 in August. I was very flattered to have Paul Johnson accept, as well as Antony Beevor, both of whom I placed at my table next to the Queen of Greece, while the Duke of Beaufort, who had not visited Annabel’s in 35 years, sat with the mother of my children and King Constantine. But while I’m at it, and as one who has not spoken to any member of the Birley family, there’s been a great injustice perpetrated against my friend Robin Birley, who for obvious reasons did not attend my blast. I will not go into details, but my old friend Mark Birley has done a great injustice to his son Robin. It is too bad because Annabel’s resurgence is owed to Robin and his young friends.
Basically I think Mark never liked the fact that Robin was close to Jimmy Goldsmith and Aspinall. My brother goes around saying terrible things about me, and all I did was give him half of what didn’t belong to him. I don’t mind because he’s a bitter old man whereas I am a very happy old man. But a father should never humiliate or fire his son, at least not where I come from.
But to more pleasant revelations. The words used by the first man to step on the moon seem to be in doubt. ‘That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,’ is the accepted version. Neil Armstrong insists that he meant to say ‘one small step for a man ... ’ but what he really said was ‘one giant step for Manny Klein’. How do I know? His half-brother, Nigel Armstrong, was my tennis coach and continues to coach the Bismarck children. Who is Manny Klein? He was Neil’s roommate at the Airforce Academy. On his wedding night he asked his bride for some oral sex. She refused. Nice Jewish girls don’t do that sort of thing. ‘Not until a man walks on the moon,’ she told him. Hence Neil’s remarks. It pays to have well-connected coaches, and it also pays to have a sense of humour like Neil’s. But whether Mrs Manny Klein lived up to what she had promised, I am totally ignorant.
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