High life
To London with dread
Taki
NNew York
icky Haslam sure got it right a couple of weeks ago, when writing in the diary he remarked: 'There's a depressing drift across the Atlantic of rich, bored women who ... are inflicting themselves on London. Their idea of a night out involves being with the same age-and-income group people at some recently invented obscure charity evening ... ' Hear, hear! All I can say is something must be done about these American women. As Nicky pointed out, the whole point of London life is its varied content.
I remember walking down some street with Kate Reardon following a cocktail party, and trying to talk her into going to a hotel de passe, as a joke, of course. (First she wouldn't go, second there are no longer hotels de passe in London.) A taxi would have solved our problems but there were none around. Suddenly a car stopped and a friendly man asked if we needed a ride. Once inside he asked which way we were going. 'Harry's Bar, or anywhere near there would be fine."Oh, my name's Tom Stopparcl, nice to meet you,' came the reply. I asked Sir Tom, as he had just become, to join us for dinner but he refused. 'I have to baby-sit,' Which is Nicky's point. I don't know many playwrights in America who would offer a ride to two unknowns, then refuse dinner because they had to baby-sit.
Although I never set foot in grubby, dirty, disgusting, depressing (Simon Heffer's words in the Speccie three weeks ago) London any more, I do miss its varied content. Just before Christmas last year I missed the great party Ben Goldsmith gave because of some monkey business over here. When I got the reports I realised no monkey business was worth it. All my friends were there, starting with people older than me and ending with kids much younger than my children. Now that's what I call a good mix. Over in the Bagel, a good mix is what they call three billionaires mixing with some multimillionaires.
Last week I had dinner with 12 people at SwifhT's, the in place for rich Bagelite ladies who lunch. Every one of the men had gone either to Yale or to Harvard, every one of the women to Vassar or Brown. They all had children of the same age, worked downtown in banking, had summer houses in the Hamptons and win ter places in Palm Beach, and I spent most of the time sitting in the loo asking myself how could I possibly have been roped into such a ghastly dinner.
The evening got off to a bad start when my hostess placed me on her left. 'What do I owe this honour to?' I asked. Then for some strange reason — she is very proper — before she answered, I added, And by the way, who's the c— on your right?' Well, I never! There's something about shocking Americans that gives me a thrill.
Late last year a Greek friend asked me to lunch at a gold club near the Bagel. My friend had a Mr Aquaviva and a Mr Mezzacalsa lunching with him. I declined, telling him that having spent the summer with super Wop, Gianni Agnelli, the last thing I needed was to break bread with two ersatz dagoes. (They're Italian Americans, but affect Wasp mannerisms.) Again, I never! I don't know, perhaps it's little old me, but people get awfully touchy over here.
As Paul Johnson wrote two weeks ago, the collapse of Soviet communism, and the decision of China to participate in the world market economy, has left a huge vacuum in the Left's pantheon of hero-states. There is nothing that makes me laugh more than the anti-Americanism of those ludicrous, smelly, ugly Brits who pass for the Left nowadays. Their envy and hatred of Uncle Sam puts me in a wonderful mood, especially when I read their drivel in the British rags over here in the sunny Bagel. Sure, there's no varied content over here and not much sense of humour, but that's a very small price to pay for total freedom, terrific pussy and good weather to boot.
I'm on my way to London to see my buddy Benson, and I'm already dreading the rain, depressing atmosphere and 'the anodyne blandness of American moneymatrons' living in London. But it could be worse. I could be living in Palm Beach, like that fat fool brother of mine.
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