High life
Dropping off
Taki
rr hank God Wimbledon is over and I can 1 sleep past 12 o'clock without feeling guilty. Thank God also that some of the most unpleasant Americans over for the tennis have gone back from where they came. For a while SW19 sounded like Beverly Hills. Never have I heard so much name-dropping as I did last week, especial- ly 'Vitas' and 'John'. I have never under- stood why Americans — especially rich Americans — tend to drop names as often as Anna Ford seems to need help with writing. (Incidentally, some hack writing in the magazine her husband edits has called me a name-dropper. Which shows how much they know over there. How can Taki — the greatest name one can drop — drop names less weighty than his?)
And speaking of Americans reminds me of the Anglo-American Ball on Independ- ence Day at they Royal Academy. As readers of this space know, I stopped writing about balls long ago because more often than not I'm too out of it by dinner-time to remember anything the next day. The last time I remember having a proper conversation with somebody was about ten years ago and it was with my publisher, Tom Stacey (yes, this is name- dropping, and perhaps the ball was last year). The first person I saw upon entering was a publisher, too, but that is where the similarity with Tom Stacey ends. Needless to say, it was Herr Weidenfeld, and like a good mittel European he was trying to teach some old lady how to waltz. Next to him stood the shortest non-registered midget in the world, a Hollywood agent by the name of Swifty Lazar. Swifty is prob- ably the world's best known agent — as well as the shortest — and has been known to brag that he's never read a book in his life. I remember thinking when I saw him and Weidenfeld talking that they probably had a lot in common.
Although there were 1,400 people attending, as usual I ended up hearing who was there from friends the next day. Five minutes past midnight and the memory was gone. For a while I pursued a girl called Cosima, then India-Jane, then Katya, then Cosima again, and the next thing I remem- ber was an unbelievable sight that shocked me back to reality. While looking around for a place to lie down and sleep, I spotted my old friend Archie Stirling talking with . . . his wife, the beautiful Diana Rigg. And they weren't just talking, they were actually enjoying each other's company. Although it sounds unbelievable to see married people talking to each other nowa- days, I swear I am not exaggerating. So I sat down with them and soon both Archie and Diana politely excused themselves and
headed for the exit. Afterwards I was told that they had sat-through a Taki soliloquy for 35 minutes without a break, and what I called soon was not nearly soon enough for them.
Archie's father, Bill Stirling, was a wonderful man, as brave in war as he was gentle in peace-time. I used to play a lot of chemin-de-fer in the late Sixties with him, and I remember his habit of always being polite when losing a close hand. A far cry from today, where people actually swear at the roulette wheel. After I had driven Archie and Diana prematurely home, it was time to file my complaint with the American ambassador, which was why I had gone to the ball in the first place.
The trouble was that I got my American ambassadors mixed up. Van Galbraith is Uncle Sam's man in Paris, and he happens to be a friend of mine. The man I accosted was not Galbraith but because of his accent I thought he must be the American ambas- sador — or something similar. Anyway, my complaint was that during the D-Day celebrations, possibly the greatest tax- evader of all time, the Aga Khan, was allowed to be on the honour stand. Not only that, he took the salute of brave men who fought on the beaches on 6 June 1944, the very same day his grandfather was lolling about in Lausanne counting his money. (I hear there will be a Congression- al investigation about this, and for once I shall be on the side of Congress. Putting the Aga on an honour stand is like putting my picture on the cover of Gay News).
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