High life
Strong medicine
Taki
AChinese gentleman, an old friend of Jeffrey Bernard, asked my Low life col- league to introduce him to one of the many doctors who have been treating poor Jeff these last years. Jeff sent him to one of the better ones, and asked me to accompany him because the Chinese gent's English is on a par with Clinton's heroism. This is a cautionary tale for loyal Speccie readers about the problems that can arise when people who do not speak the same lan- guage are forced to live together. As in Maastricht.
As I understand it, the Chinese gent complained to the doctor that he was very constipated. The doctor gave him a pre- scription for a strong laxative but, fearing a blocked bowel, asked him to come back in two days. When his patient returned, the doctor asked, 'Have you moved ?"No sir,
no move, no move.' The doctor doubled the prescription and, when the Chinaman told him that he still hadn't moved, tripled it. By this time the medicine man was really worried. When the poor patient returned yet again, the doctor asked him if he had at last moved. 'No sir, no move yet. Move tomorrow, though. House full of s—.'
Oh well, it could have been worse. Fergie and her mother in Hello, for example. Never have I seen so much of the stuff that filled up the Chinese man's house. These two women are incredible. Instead of going away and Tying doggo for a while, they per- sist in telling their stories to Hello and other such publications in order to stay in the public eye. If Parliament passes a priva- cy law, it should be aimed at publicity hounds such as Fergie and her mum, not against a press already gagged by libel laws.
A brief, if somewhat sordid example: the collapse and death of River Phoenix out- side a seedy Sunset Strip club may have stunned Hollywood and River's fans, but they came as no surprise to the poor little Greek boy. Early this year, an actress friend of mine living in the palm-lined Sodom had told me a ghastly story about Phoenix's compulsive drug-taking. He was in her house, high on cocaine and G.HB, a form of Ecstasy but much, much stronger, and was popping morphine tablets to come down.
Now I'm no angel, but this was ridicu- lous. My friend told me River almost died in her house that very night in January, so when I read how everyone thought he was clean until it happened, I laughed out loud. I had wanted to write something about this demonic drug-taking, but those nice guys, the lawyers, almost had a fit.
This is what happens when the public relations people take over. Flacks auction off their stories about celebrities, and Hello publishes them. If someone goes too far, they pay six-figure sums to multimillion- aires who more often than not say they will give the money to an Aids charity. (I won- der what happened to cancer, heart disease and other afflictions since Aids became the charity?) This is no way to run a democra-
cy. It is the Winnie Mandela way.
And speaking of the darling of the liberal Left, Emma Gilbey has written a terrific account of the modern Lady Macbeth, one who — if there was any justice — should have been hanged or at least be doing a Taki for life. The Lady is the title of Emma's opus, and it is riveting to read as well as being beautifully written. Mind you, I have an interest to declare. Emma and Taki were once like Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher, except that I didn't run off with Liz Taylor. And the party Knopf gave for Emma's book was also top-notch. For a change there were some beautiful women. And, at Green's afterwards, more women, more wine, more Worcesters. It doesn't get any better than that.
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