High life
Christmas present. . .
Taki
Last week, browsing through The Speccie's letters to the editor, I came across a mention of that delightful song by Alan Jay Lerner, 'How Could You Believe Me When I Said I Loved You When You Know I've Been A Liar Al] My Life'. It sure brought back memories of Christ- mases past. It was 1965, I was drunk in El Morocco, the premier dinner-nightclub of its day, and made friends with the lyricist upon discovering we were both boxers. (I had a black eye, he had lost an eye practis- ing the sweet science.) My dinner compan- ion was Lee Radziwill, sister of the recently widowed Jackie Kennedy, and Alan Lerner was with his wife Micheline. (If memory serves, Lerner married seven or eight times.) Alan invited us back to the Pierre, where he had a grand piano, and where he pro- ceeded to play a few songs of his upcoming musical, On A Clear Day You Can See For- ever. On bidding him goodnight, I remem- bered that he was the one who had written 'How Could You Believe Me 'He was impressed and surprised. Back in those hal- cyon days, in boarding school, our only entertainment was listening to the radio, and the title of the tune had, shall we say, got our undivided attention. It was Holden Caulfield in song, and back then we all thought of ourselves as Holden Caulfields. Mind you, if life weren't as unfair as it is, Congress would have long ago passed. a resolution replacing `Hail To The Chief with 'How Could You Believe Me ... 'But this is Christmas, so I won't go on.
New York this time of year is a mad- house. There are more parties than — here comes that old cliché again — there are name-droppers in Hollywood and, speaking of that ghastly place, my old buddy Roffredo Gaetani, to the rest of you unfamiliar with the Almanach de Gotha, Count Gaetani di Aragona, threw a party to end all bashes this week. I named it the `Putana' party because Roffredo had at least 150 beautiful models on hand. Never have so many tall and lis- some beauties been leered over by so many greaseballs. My problem was Steven Seagal, an 'actor' who makes Jack Straw almost pass for a gentleman. I once met Seagal before he went to Hollywood at Martin Summers's house. He was arrogant back then, and now he thinks his you-know-what doesn't smell. He tried to intimidate a friend of mine who told him to take a flying f—, but cooler heads prevailed.
Just as well. There are too many parties for someone my age to be going around looking like Rocky Graziano. As the centu- ry, draws to an end, everyone is throwing caution to the wind and throwing bashes. The Bucldeys, Chuck Pfeifer, Johnny Pig- gozzi, Serena Boardman, Stephen Morris and Candace Bushnell, Eliza Reed, my nephew John Theodoracopulos, you name them, they've thrown one. All one needs is a strong liver, a dinner jacket and a limo. The rest is gravy, as they say.
Here are my plans, if I get through the week, that is. I'm off to Gstaad, where, on the 28th, I'm giving my end-of-the-century blast. Then it's off to Versailles, as in Louis XIV, where Dino Goulandris is seeing the new millennium in with a white-tie dance to end all dances. (British hacks need not apply.) So, in view of the fact that I might not be around much longer due to party fatigue, I want to make my (maybe) last Christmas wishes after 23 years of Speccie writing. First and foremost to General Pinochet, the man who saved his country', as well as setting the example which South America has followed. He is not only a great man and a great hero, he is also a martyr, betrayed by people whose names will become verbs connotating cowardice and low cunning (to Blair, to Straw). Ditto to those who publish The London Miscel- lany and Right Now, two patriotic publica- tions who continue to write the truth despite their meagre finances. My best wishes also go to my friend Jonathan Aitken, yet another victim of the mends- cious Guardian; and, of course, to all my colleagues in The Spectator; and, finally, to all you wonderful readers. As the clock strikes 12, I shall drink a toast to The Spec- cie's readers, the Versailles of readership. Happy Christmas!
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