W e’re back in St Tropez after a whirlwind week in
London. The party season is in full swing so I dipped my toes in a couple, and what a difference between two of the most high-profile events that week. One, an exhibition of paintings at a Dover Street Gallery, was given in a large airy room with a wide balcony and pretty garden, in which one could stroll. There was enough space and enough time to chat with groups of friends and acquaintances, who could wander around admiring the great pictures and eat the hors d’œuvres without getting jostled and poked. An affable Michael Winner, Steven Berkoff, Ivor Braka, Frederick Forsyth, Christopher Biggins, and apparently even the elusive Banksy, who reportedly stuck his head around the door for a few minutes, were just some of the guests at this extremely civilised drinks party. By contrast, two nights later, in a narrow storeyed house in Old Queen Street, a heaving mass of wall-to-wall people, many seemingly gargantuan, crammed together in such a tiny space that Percy and I, despite our ardent efforts, could not make our way through the crush to greet our host. We lingered in the lobby to chat briefly with an irritable Michael Winner, Jeffrey Archer and Taki and then took off after 15 minutes, entirely defeated.
So who hosted these two oh-so-dissimilar parties? The painting exhibition was my son Sacha Newley’s (call it nepotism, if you wish, I thought the party was truly wonderful, as was my son’s work). The sweaty crush alas was the Spectator summer party. I know you meant well, Matthew, but next year, need you invite quite so many people? Or how about a roomier venue? I know you want to be on hand in the event of some late-breaking development, but an exclusive about a stampede at the Spectator offices caused by someone yelling ‘breaking news’ would hardly be good PR.
With the crush of the parties come the crushing handshakes. Why do people — and I’m afraid it’s especially men, although some women have also adopted this horrid habit — think that a bone-crusher of a so-called civilised salute is requisite? Some theorise it’s used to establish themselves as a ‘solid citizen’, while others argue it affirms their superiority over the crushee. I try now not to shake hands at parties. With bag in hand and glass of wine in the other, I simply raise either in friendly salute, although many still refuse to accept the compromise and dedicated hand-shakers stand with manos firmly extended. I take a deep breath and extend a pinkie, resigned never to be able to wear my Theo Fennell on it again. Iwas looking forward to relaxing on the Eurostar from Paris to London. No airport hassle to get through, the dreaded removal of shoes (which provokes in me the fear of verrucas), belt, coat, hat and jewellery. The process makes me flushed and aggravated. So I was surprised when casually walking through security at Gare du Nord wearing my usual gold bangles that the beeper beeped furiously. ‘Get back!’ barked the burly security guard as he raised his hand indicating where he wanted me, and knocking my fedora off in the process. ‘Take them off!’ he yelled again as I just stood, stupidly wondering what he meant — this wasn’t a strip club after all. Then he pointed at the bracelets saying, ‘Off, off, take them off.’ To say I was nonplussed at the almost Gestapo level of security was putting it mildly, but I meekly obeyed, handing the offensive trinkets to another official, who seemed to be enjoying my discomfort. I prised off my bracelets, breaking a nail in the process, and the men then examined them minutely, turning them round and inspecting them as if I had managed to secret an illegal substance inside them, destined to blow myself, my husband and all the innocents on the train to kingdom come. He finally returned them with a smiling, ‘Thank you very much, Ms Collins. I always enjoyed Dynasty.’ Sex education for four-year-olds! Excuse me while I weep. Most four-year-olds can’t even read these days. What kind of insanity has come over these Marxist Morons to even suggest such an insane and revolting idea? When my daughter-in-law read about it she was horrified, pointing out that her bright fouryear-old, Ava, would only become confused. Can the idiots who are condoning this idea possibly believe that this is going to prevent teenage pregnancy? What is this desire of Nanny Britain to make innocent children grow up so fast? Bring back the stork, I say, it worked for my kids.
There’s something dreadfully Mugabe-ish about Gordon Brown’s attitude towards the ordinary citizens of Britain. He seems not to care one jot that we are all finding day-today living more and more horrible, with the rising prices of food, fuel and transport, unfair taxes and rocketing mortgages. Thousands of elderly pensioners — the same people who got Britain through the second world war — are practically starving while the portals are wide open for every foreign immigrant who arrives and immediately collects massive benefits such as housing, health and maternity care. The chilling statistic that one quarter of all babies in Britain in 2007 were born to non-nationals means that in just a few more years our national identity will be beyond repair. I myself have heard of at least two Eastern European girls who, shortly after arriving in Britain, became pregnant and are receiving housing and benefits from the state that afford them a relatively comfortable life. Perhaps our tourist board should adopt a new slogan: ‘Come to Britain, get laid — we’ll pay for it!’
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