High life
In good company
Taki
It was the mother of fun weeks, but as a result I feel like Kuwait. Not since Prometheus has a liver taken such a pound- ing. Yet the week started in a civilised fash- ion, with Christina Foyle's literary lunch celebrating Lord Longford's latest book, Punishment and the Punished. Miss Foyle had honoured me by asking me to chair the
lunch, but when I arrived at the Grosvenor House hotel I discovered an even smaller and darker man than myself posing as Taki. It turned out to be a hack, who was put back in his place rather quickly. Not ever having met any of the distinguished guests, it wasn't difficult for the little Iraqi to mas- querade as Taki.
Needless to say, both the lunch and the company were superb. I sat between Lord Longford and Lord Jenkins, but alas I had eyes only for the former's daughter, Lady Rachel Billington, sitting a few chairs away. Now I'm aware of the fact that a literary lunch of Foyle's standing is no place to try and pick up women, but what is a man to do when hit by a coup de foudre?
Well, I'll tell you. For starters make a resolution that he will never, ever, write anything rude about Harold Pinter again. Then try and be nice to Lord and Lady Longford, probably the saintliest couple around today. After that, hope against hope that I will one day become Pinter's brother-in-law.
Later that evening, at Lulu Blacker's and Susannah Constantine's party, my poor old heart was dented even further when I ran into Cornelia Faulkner in deep conversa- tion with my English cousin Harry Worces- ter. The bash was great fun, but everyone there seemed to be pregnant, all but my friend John McVicar, that is.
Two days later my liver had its coup de grace. But it was well worth it. I was at the Hurlingham Club to give the Spectator award in the Louis Vuitton concours d'ele- gance of vintage cars, an occasion which despite the foul weather I shall not soon forget. But a word about Louis Vuitton. As everyone knows, had I been using their products, I would have never been stopped at Heathrow on that black day back in 1984. Even Customs officers know that only the best use Vuitton bags, and the best are never seedy. Mind you, they were as good as their product last Saturday. Jonathan Falkner was as generous a host as one could expect, and the picnic put out by Anton Mosimann was straight out of 'Le dejeuner sur l'herbe'. Even better than the food and drink was the fact that I ran into Marke Zervudachi and his wife Jacqui, the old Grand Prix champ Phil Hill and Paddy Hopkirk. Marke was probably the best Greek racing driver ever, and definitely a gentleman of the old school.
Unfortunately I had to leave early for a midnight drive down to Norfolk for yet another party, one which I remember noth- ing about except having a dance with a lady who was smoking a cigar. Her name is Rosie D'Avigdor Goldsmid, and when I made a pass she very lady-like reminded me she was 85 years old. So we sat and reminished throughout the night, until my host threw me out.
And so on to this Thursday's Claridges bash, which I will describe for you next week. If the heart and the liver hold out, that is.
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