High life
Out of control
Taki
t has rained 12 days in a row in the Bagel, and, when I say rain, I mean rain. None of that spitting London stuff. Thanks to El Nino, this has been monsoon-like. Central Park is submerged, as is some of New Jersey. But the social life has not suf- fered one bit. This week Reinaldo and Car- olina Herrera gave a terrific bash for Nancy Reagan, one that just about finished me off. Soon I will have to go back to Lon- don for some badly needed R&R. It is ironic but it used to be the other way round. London meant freedom, fun, females and everything else that starts with the letter f. I used to train for my London sojourns. I'd go on my boat, sleep, eat and
take lotsa exercise, then hit London and binge for weeks on end. No longer. The Bagel is the place for fun and games, as well as for young women.
I guess it all started with Jimmy Gold- smith and the press. My loathing of Lon- don, that is. I had a hard time accepting the fact of low life, envious, crude and mostly illiterate hacks crucifying a man of Jimmy's calibre. There is something very wrong when the intellectual, physical, moral and social inferiors can besmirch the reputation of their superiors.
There is something very wrong when physically repellent, disgusting-looking men Like Paul Foot, Ian Hislop, Alan Rus- bridger and the rest of the Guardian and tabloid scum can ruin the lives of good men like Neil Hamilton and Jonathan Aitken. It means that bad wins over good, malice over humanity. Now we have the perverse and odious Boycott toady going after Paul Johnson. All I can say is this. No matter what Paul did — and he did absolutely nothing wrong — it is a million times better than the crime Boycott commits daily by being in this world in the first place.
Mind you, Tony Blair and all those degenerates he has surrounded himself with have to take some of the blame. Blair's been in power a year now and has done nothing about controlling a press that is out of control and run mostly by gang- sters. And I apologise to all crooks for the
insult. There is such a thing as honour among thieves. There is absolutely no hon- our among hacks except for those writing for the Telegraph and The Spectator.
Last week a low-life dared ring me in New York and enquire when and where I would be giving my party. He said he was ringing from 'the office of Peter McKay'. I found that rather uppity. A hack like McKay having an office, that is, and ringing me as if we were equals. Also, that a hack like McKay would actually think I would answer him and provide him with informa- tion. On second thoughts, however, I will. I will take over the London Ritz whenever Paul Johnson wishes me to. I will give a large ball — with champagne and caviar, as unimaginative hacks always describe bashes they are not invited to — and have two orchestras playing all night. I will have a tent going from the Belle Epoque dining- room down into the park. I will invite most of the pretty young women in London and New York — and some royal princesses I am courting at the moment — and, of course, my friends. It will be in honour of Paul Johnson, a man whose scholarship, humanity, talent and gravitas is in direct proportion to the depravity, malice, hatred and jealousy of the scum that is the British press.
After all, living well is the best revenge, and I can't wait to get to London and to honour Paul.
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