High life
Incensed by dwarfs
Taki
Ifirst heard the rumours about six months ago. John Aspinall was going to throw a party in honour of the Torgamba Forrest Sumatran rhinoceros, one of the rarest animals in the world, and now on the brink of extinction. (A catching expedition has been organised by Aspers to rescue some of the remaining rhinos whose natu- ral habitat is being turned into a rubber plantation.) Knowing Aspinall as I do, it didn't surprise me. Normal people give parties for their daughter's coming out, or wedding, or even their son's coming of age. Although his 60th birthday passed un- noticed last month, Aspers has yet to celebrate a living human. It is either great kings of the past, or noble animals of the present. This time rumour had it that 1,000 Mesopotamian midgets would be flown to Kent in order to epater les bourgeois. But as usual, the rumour mongers got it wrong. There were only 24 of them, and they all turned out to be dwarfs, and all holders of British passports to boot. The other thing the rumour reapers didn't guess was that the Torgamba party of last Saturday, will probably do for future party givers what the Ligne Maginot did for French national pride in May 1940. Let me explain.
At the age of 48 I feel I've been around long enough to know about parties and balls as well as, say, Lord Elgin knew the importance of saving marbles from uncivil- ised environments and preserving them for posterity. Some of the great ones that come to mind were the Bestegui one in Venice, the Agnelli dance in the Bois de Boulogne, the last party the Rothschilds gave at their château at Ferriere, and the Patino blast in Portugal during the final years of Salazar. And although it may sound ungracious to compare, such was the spectacle Aspinall created last Saturday, that I'm sure my hosts of the past will understand. This put them all to shame.
The ball took place at Port Lympne, Hythe, the Sir Herbert Baker-built man- sion for Sir Philip Sassoon, now owned by Aspers. I arrived promptly at 8.45 and, as parking attendants took my car, we were greeted by the scarlet-tuniced Queen's Regiment band that struck up the kind of military marches that can inspire even a Lebanese to act nobly. Then it was about a mile's walk through what Russell Page has called the most beautiful gardens in Eng- land, and Rex Whistler the Virgin Forest. It was through stands of catalpa trees over 40 feet high, accompanied by wolves, Siberian tigers, and a snow leopard or two that one suddenly arrived at the Great Stairs that lead down to the house.
On either side of the Trojan stairway are cascading boxed hedges, or ziggurat, giving a pyramid effect. Five years ago Aspinall had chosen boy scouts to line the stairs and entrance. This time, the theme being the rhino, Michael Howell had created a Sumatran market scene that was, well, as real as any Sumatran market scene would be if directed by Cecil B. De Mille in the good old days of Hollywood. There were half-naked, exotically dressed `Sumatran', pelting us with rose petals offering us food, while the dwarfs stirred their cups and produced the strongest smell of incense I've smelt outside the Greek Orthodox Church.
Down at the bottom of the Nuremberg- like stairway stood Aspinall and Sally greeting their by now rather open-mouthed guests. Every person there was known to the Aspinalls, all 432 of us, which is a rarity in itself. Hosts today invite people for what they are — especially in America — and the guests are the important element of the party. Not Aspinall. With him his guests serve as an audience, or necessary extras, to his creative megalomania. In fact he reminded me of a Renaissance prince, greeting the people who were paying hom- age to his genius for living well. Small- minded people like the Hartleys of this world may call it a waste, but that would be as wrong as calling Carter-Ruck an aris- tocrat.
Dinner, needless to say, was seated, and the tent had been transformed into a tropical rain forest by Michael Howell, who had spent four months planning the details. The seating followed a racist theme, or a racist aspect, rather. Better yet, it was vintage Aspinall. There were his Greek friends, their voices now lowered because of the crash of the shipping mar- ket, all seated together. Then there were the Sephardic Jews, happy to be once again making money in the countries of their choice, and the South African Jews, look- ing worried, but happy for a night. There was also the noisy racing owners table, with their acolytes, and the nob table, presided over by my cousin Sunny Marl- borough, and including Lords Warwick and Suffolk. And there was the jailbird table, with Justin Frewen, Taki, and some- one who almost made it but didn't.
Aspers never was a man to forsake old friends, whatever misfortune may have engulfed them, and they were there too. Last but not least was the homosexual table, headed by the octogenarian who survived the sinking of the Titanic by dressing up as a girl and screaming, 'Mom- my, Mommy.' (There were eight poofters among the 432.) Oh, I almost forgot, there was also the Westminster table, headed by a government minister and the best looking MP in the Commons, both of whom showed interest in prison reform and ques- tioned me closely. After the cabaret we retired to the north lawn where Robert Tear, accompanied by the Philarmonic Orchestra sang the favourite songs of another great tenor, Richard Tauber. I sat in front with my NBF, Benjy Fraser, and Natasha Grenfell and suddenly realised how Mrs Thatcher could do away once and for all with drug addiction, thuggery, Aids, and other dis- eases too ghastly to mention. All she has to do is ban rock music, jail every rock star except for Harry Worcester, and c'est tout. Everyone's mood was so uplifted by the music that if somebody had offered anyone a snort, or a joint, they would have been as welcome as a Democrat in the Kremlin. ;Alterwards we danced to the Neal Smith and from Palm Beach, and the newest song they played was written before the war. I danced for the first time in 20 years, and danced non-stop for close to six hours. As always I was the last person to leave, and continued at the Imperial Hotel which Pers had taken over for his guests. But Aspers told me that in five years he'll do it lain, and knowing how preposterous and mptuous he can be, I wouldn't put it past m.
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