High life
Field of disaster
Taki
Imagine running into Ava Gardner and Betty Grable during their heyday and hav- ing the two most divine and sexiest women ever invite you into their bed — and after- wards being sworn to secrecy. Something to that effect (although nothing to do with sex) happened to me last week. I shall call it the scoop that dare not speak its name. And I will give no hints, except to say that I'm no A.N. Wilson.
What I will tell you all about, however, is the cricket match between Badminton and Lord Worcester's team, the greatest Greek cricketer ever batting 1 1 th for Bunter, although I never got to hit. In a one-day, 40-overs match, we had a respectable 176 in our innings when we stopped for tea. Alas, I was quite tipsy from lunch, and when we took to the field I was responsible for a series of disasters. Twice balls went through my legs and both times I fell chas- ing after them. In the meantime, Shahriar Bakhtiar, the world's greatest Persian since Darius, was performing miracles as bowler; ditto Mark Shand and Simon Mitchell.
Then catastrophe. Our bowler Ben Elliot, suffering from love pangs and, as a result, as intimidating as Shirley Temple, quickly got the Badminton team within range by distributing sixes to all and sundry. With the penultimate ball and our opponents need- ing two runs, fearless captain Bunter ordered the infield in and that's when the s— hit the fan. The ball was drilled straight at me and my place in cricket history — at least in ducal houses — was mine to catch. Instead, I became the laughing stock, miss- ing the projectile completely in a poor imi- tation of the Artful Dodger.
Although deeply embarrassed and in need of premature evacuation, I did stay for dinner chez the Worcesters, getting pro- gressively more and more drunk. Shand was so disgusted with me he refused dinner and jogged all the way back to London, 80 miles or so away. Johnny Parry, another team-mate I let down, asked if my unco- ordination derived from Greek-style onanism, known to render strong men leg- less. Bakhtiar wondered what the result of the Battle of Marathon would have been had I fought on the Greek side. It was the worst day of my life, but I made sure I didn't feel it until the wrath of grapes hit home Sunday morning.
And, speaking of bad days, what about this Margaret Jay woman? With the excep- tion of cocaine, the only known antidote to Viagra is the leader of the Lords. Although the bloom has gone from her, she is referred to by the know-nothing press as some kind of seductress. She's nothing of the kind. Her arrogance derives from the sourness of the excluded, c'est tout. She got to Washington for a lark and famously screwed a certain man and now she's in the Lords bossing it over people with more tal- ent than she'll ever possess. And as Freddy Forsyth correctly pointed out, she has the biggest and ugliest feet in Europe. (Horrible feet are the biggest giveaways as far as barbarians are concerned.) Mind you, when was the last time any newspaper except for the Telegraph got it right? Take the case of Jemima Khan, A moronic article in the Daily Mail hints that she's unhappy with Imran, has lost weight and the marriage is on the rocks. 1 happen to know — because I have access — that the opposite is true. The Khans have moved to Islamabad, have never been hap- pier together and Jemima can't wait to return to Pakistan. She truly loves the place, however hard to believe (I'd rather go back to Pentonville). Which means a major paper, and a good one at that, runs a totally false story on the word of some know-nothing hack. Well, why not? If the leader of the LOrds can openly lie about her education in order to score a point against the Tories, and if the Prime Minis- ter can continuously mislead and lie, why shouldn't the hacks — natural and gifted liars that they are — do the same thing?
But why am I writing about such unpleasant subjects as journalists? Tonight I'm off to Jessica Rothschild's birthday party, Jessica being one of the prettiest and nicest girls in London. Her problem is his- tory. She has not studied it enough to know that as we Greeks wiped the floor with the Italians in 1940, to the victors belong the spoils. She is stepping out with a nephew of Gianni Agnelli instead of the poor little Greek boy. But, after the cricket match, even Margaret Jay might say no to me.
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