High life
Revealing
Taki
Athens Co, my old friend Richard John Bing- ham, better known as the seventh Earl of Lucan, will not be left in peace by the press. I don't know why but I believe that story emanating from Johannesburg that appeared in the Sunday Times as much as I believe that Hitler didn't know about the `excesses' of some of his inferiors. I can just see 'Lucky' running a sewing factory, or whatever the Sunday Times said that he did; or anwering telephone calls from a journalist, making an appointment and then disappearing into thin air. What I really believe is that the author of the story deserves, and should be immediately award- ed, the Clifford Irving prize, last won by Janet Cooke of the Washington Post. But never mind. Somebody has to remind us about Lucan and the South African con- nection. It is called killing two birds with one stone. Before Lord Soames went down and made sure that Rhodesia turned into a one-party state, it was reported in the press that Lucan was somewhere in the Rhode- sian bush. Now he has surfaced in South America. Well, the only reason why I won't reveal where he really is hiding, is that if the hacks found out where Lucky really is they would write with verisimilitude about his
new life in the (oh no I don't), and the award would really depreciate.
One hack who surprised me was Mr Peter McKay. McTaki, as people who know his playboy proclivities call him, is a man who should know better. Last time I was with him at Annabel's we talked about Lucan and because we had both taken so much laughing powder I even spilt the beans and told him where Lucky was. Now he turns round and tells his august readers in the Daily Express to put their fish and chips away and hate Lucan. Worse, McTaki at- tacks Lucan's friends. Which means me. Just you wait, McTaki. Next time I see you at Annabel's or at White's I shall give you what you deserve: a knuckle sandwich. McTaki went even further. He dared to at- tack the Lucan set and John Aspinall. This is madness. More than one person has been fed to the tigers for less, and knowing my friend Aspers, McTaki's days are num- bered. Lord Matthews had better start look- ing around for someone else to start his week with. My choice is Charles Benson, a scout no longer. Benson was a good friend of Lucky's; he too, knows where Lucky is, and he also knows about the royals.
Which brings me to yet some more possi- ble winners of the Clifford Irving award: the authors of a book about the innermost secrets of the royal family. Benson, who knows, assures me that nothing that those two wrote is even remotely accurate. What
surprised Benson most of all was the fact that the Daily Mail published excerpts from the book. 'Lord Matthews would never stoop that low,' was the way an embar- rassed Benson put it. 'I predict Sir David English Will never become Lord,' continued the Queen's new best friend. Although I don't like to get mixed up in royal squabbles or Fleet Street vendettas, must admit I agree with Benson. After all, Nigel Dempster, the only Englishman who is a journalist and had a title to begin with,
refrained from even touching the story about his cousin the Earl of Lucan and his closest friends, the royals. But enough of low blows by low lifers. Unlike hacks I am not expert on hits below the waist but
must admit that last week off Cape Sounton I could not resist one by teasing a few thou-
sand Russian sailors. I was cruising with my
friend Christopher Buckley and some floozies when we spotted an enormous
troop carrier heading for Odessa. We decid"
ed to have some fun with those poor Rus- sians and I told the floozies to sunbathe 10 the nude while Christopher and I pretended to sip champagne. My captain kept the boat cruising on a parallel course for a few minutes and we watched the Russians watch
us. Now there were about a couple of thou' sand of them, young and, I assume, away from women for a long time. But all they did was stare and stare. Not one gesture{ not one yell. In fact they reminded me those people who have been starved for too long and are too apathetic to do anything when offered food. So feeling like heels we waved goodbye but then felt a bit better because not one single wave emanated from the troop ship. Strange people those, Soviets. I wonder how Lucky could stand living on that ship all these years.
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