High life

Spring fever

Taki

New York

Spring is here, which means a lot of tarts with new money and even newer faces will be trekking north from Palm Beach and other such southern playgrounds of bad taste. The arrival of people who kiss each other on both cheeks every time they meet one another is 'probably the only thing I have against spring. That and hay fever, needless to say.

Not that I have anything against Palm

Beach as a resort. In fact I used to love go- ing there before Yoko Ono and others of her ilk discovered the place. It was in Palm Beach where a then recent acquaintance gave a ride in his brand new Rolls to a girlfriend of mine and myself, and — being a vulgarian — tried to impress my girl by asking if she had ever been in a Rolls before. 'Yes, but never in the front seat,' was her answer, and for some strange reason the acquaintance remained just that.

It was also in Palm Beach that I met a

poor old Brit by the name of Cecil Everley. Cecil was a terribly nice man who had once supplemented his income by working as a gentleman's gentleman for a renowned and unacceptably rich old queen. After the queen's untimely

death Cecil moved to the

better places on this earth, and while in Palm Beach had the bad luck to be in- troduced to the venom-tongued Daisy Fellows. She had just sold her yacht, the Sister Anne, and Cecil, trying to make polite conversation, asked her if she missed it. 'No, do you miss your tray?' came the rude answer. Cecil moved to the Cote d'Azur, I believe, the following day.

The last time I was in Palm Beach was just after the birth of my daughter, and such was the shock of fatherhood I went down in order to recover. The place, however, had changed. Rich Europeans with athletic pretensions had moved in, along with Yoko, a dope dealer or two, plus every unemployed prince this side of An-

dorra. The place was hell. The American old guard, as those duffers like to call themselves, were putting the wagons around their vulgar houses trying to keep out the Indians. The Indians, some of them European royals, others just simple rich folk like Yoko, as well as the drug dealers, were busy putting their wagons up in an ef- fort to keep out the old guard. It was pretty funny but hardly conducive to having a good time.

While I was down there the talk was about who among the Indians would be allowed to enter the clubs of Palm Beach. Both the Everglades and Bath and Tennis have strict rules about such important things as one's religion, ability to speak with, one's mouth closed, and other such

typically American soi disant upper-class give-aways. An old friend of mine, a man born under a somewhat more eastern sun than the one over France, one Robert de Balkany (the christian name was his at birth) had just moved to Palm Beach and apparently had made the mistake of trying to get into the B and T. I knew a big shot of the club and told him that Balkany might be a bit loud at times, but was not such a bad fellow after all. That he would be an asset to the place. And even went further by re- counting a true story about Robert. I told the story assuming that the big shot — a real womaniser and knee-grabber if ever there was one — would appreciate the similar quality in Robert. How wrong I was. But first the story.

It was during 1968, when Paris had no petrol and the 'students' were on an ego trip while the world's press reported it as assiduously as they report American war games in Central America. We were all gathered at a house outside Paris when Robert offered to give a ride to a lady who lived at least five miles away and who was preparing to walk home. `No thanks, Robert,' said she. 'I'm much too tired, I'd rather walk.'

Well, I don't know what happened to Balkany, if he got in or not, put I do know that I was trying to help him by telling the story. All these snobs, needless to say, will be here immediately after Easter, and that is why I am flying to London next week.