High life
She's staying single
Taki
think it was about ten years ago that A.N. Wilson repeated a private conversa- tion he had had with the Queen Mother in these pages. What a brouhaha followed. `Never in my forty years of public life have I encountered such a cad .. . ' thundered Lord Wyatt. My old buddy Nicholas Soames demanded that Wilson be castrat- ed in public. Queen Mum lovers tried to burn down Wilson's humble abode.
Although not a Wilson fan — there must be something terribly wrong with someone who is a friend of the social-climbing Max Hastings, as A.N. is — I'm afraid I'm about to do a Wilson and repeat a royal but pri- vate conversation. For any of you who may have been in Grozny last week, it concerns —D&D.
It was 30 January of this year, a Thurs- day, when the poor little Greek boy hailed a cab and told a nice Cockney driver to take me to KP, or Kensington Palace, as first-time visitors like myself call it. The icon of our age, Princess Diana, had asked me to lunch. It was to reciprocate for a couple of dinners I had given in her honour in my humble little Knightsbridge flat. (Alas, both times I had gotten completely crocked and made a fool of myself.) It was during that lunch that the Fayed name came up. The Princess of Wales reads The Speccie and remarked upon the spirited to and fro of letters written by Mr Michael Cole. She said matter of factly that Mohammed Al Fayed had suggested to her she marry his son Dodi. Like the fool I am, I did not ask her what she thought of the suggestion, nor did I pursue the point. Let's face it, the poor little Greek boy is not a born newshound. I found it embar- rassing to probe.
Six months later, this Tuesday in fact, I rang up KP and asked to speak to the Princess. I suffer from slight dyslexia and had written down my own telephone num- ber in order not to make a mistake while leaving a message with her staff. Sunning himself next to me was Charles Benson, looking like a pink, overweight polar bear.
Benson is the man who knows and keeps all the secrets. A curious man, Benson had indiscreetly peeked at what I had scribbled down, and by the confused look on his face I could see he thought I had made a mis- take. Just then the Princess of Wales came on the line.
Now I am not about to do a total Wilson and repeat verbatim the conversation I had. Diana has the same effect on me as she has on others. I become weak-kneed and stutter. Worse, I simply could not get to the point. I imagine she guessed it and giggled. Finally I managed it. 'Will you be wearing a chadar any time soon?'
The answer was: 'No.' Although the newspapers already have her betrothed to Dodi, in real life things work differently. It took her a long time to get out of a loveless marriage, and she's not about to jump into another. Diana has been alone too long, and Dodi's family has taken her in, some- thing the Windsors failed to do. But it doesn't mean they'll be walking down the aisle come September.
And speaking of newspapers hounding people, I was happy to read my good friend Tom Stacey's letter to The Speccie last week. It should be required reading. One hundred and five people out of a job because the scum that was — and is — Pri- vate Eye decided to make deliberate mis- chief. A couple of weeks ago a low-lifer published a very snide article about the poor little Greek boy. It was all my fault. The man, one Robert Chalmers, was so obsequious, so begging over the telephone, I made the mistake and said yes. The moment I laid eyes on him I should have guessed. He looked straight out of central casting for the dirty raincoat brigade. Not a scintilla of breeding or ancestry.
Oh, well. Thank God for D&D. What `Look, pal, you shoot grouse your way and I'll shoot grouse mine!' would the hacks dream up if it weren't for them? One thing is for sure. In the battle of the Waleses, it is Diana 3, Charles 0.
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