High life
Jennifer's dreary
Taki
After a week of deep and tortured contemplation — plus an enforced rest at the suggestion of the sainted one — I have decided to give all loyal Spectator readers a rest . . . from my opinions. Yes, sad as it may seem, I have decided to give it all up. All good things must come to an end, and this is it for me. But before any of you start cheering and throwing streamers out of your windows, it does not mean that I'm resigning from this space. It means that for this week ONLY I will keep my opinions to myself. C'est tout. My decision has come about for reasons known only to myself, and everyone who can read the Queen's English and has invested in a newspaper these past three weeks.
Mind you, writing without stating strong opinions makes the poor little Greek jail- bird feel as helpless as a hooker without a bed, or better yet, like Oscar without his wit. But enough of these preliminaries. What follows is the new, improved Taki, reporting from the world of the high and the mighty. And reporting the truth without embellishments, hyperbole, or strong opinions.
On Saturday I left my flat at 12 minutes and three seconds after 1 p.m., and took a taxi that was heading east on the Brompton Road when I flagged it down by waving my right arm. I then headed towards Fleet Street where I met Mr Alexander Chancel- lor, the ex-sainted editor of the Spectator and at present the deputy editor of the Sunday Telegraph, Mr Peregrine Wors- thorne, the editor of the Sunday Tele- graph, and Mr Alan Watkins, the political editor of the Observer. Mr Chancellor was dressed as if for a grouse moor, Mr Worsthorne as if he were Byron, and Mr Watkins like Jeffrey Bernard.
After an hour of riveting conversation about a matter known only to myself and those who can read English and buy newspapers, I offered to pay the bill for the four bottles of champagne we had con- sumed, but Mr Watkins refused. I thanked him warmly, and left El Vino's — it was there that we consumed the champagne and flagged down yet another taxi with the same movement I had used previously. I ordered the driver to take me to St Margaret's Church in Westminster, and he replied, 'Okay, mite.' Upon arrival at the church I recognised many dear and old friends such as Alastair Forbes, Oliver Gilmour, Lady St Just, her two beautiful daughters, and others, whom I cannot honestly call close friends, people such as Princess Margaret, Viscount Linley, Vis- count Althorp, Miss Sarah Ferguson, and her fiancé, Prince Andrew.
The occasion was the wedding of Miss Jane Gilmour and the Hon. Peter Pleydell- Bouverie , 27, son of the Earl of Radnor. (Miss Jane is 26, and the only daughter of Sir Ian Gilmour and Lady Caroline Gil- mour). The time of my arrival was 3 p.m. The bride looked beautiful and the groom waited for her at the altar. After the service I was accosted by the Honorable Nicholas Soames, Conservative MP for Crawley, who asked me if I had drunk too much fire water beforehand. He then made a funny noise, burped, and laughed out loud.
I will now skip a few hours because they are of absolutely no interest as they were spent in Hyde Park and in my gym, and proceed with my account of life among the rich, noble and powerful.
At 8.32 and six seconds p.m. I was driven by the Marquess of Worcester with Miss Tracy Ward, and the Hon. Natasha Grenfell to Syon House, 12 miles from London, and the finest example of Eli- zabethan architecture in London and its environs. Syon House lies on the banks of the Thames surrounded by approximately 250 acres of parkland. The occasion was a dance given by Sir Ian Gilmour in honour of his daughter's wedding. Earl Percy was my host at dinner. Among his guests I recognised many dear and old friends such as Mr Christopher Gilmour, and the Hon. (only last week) Jane Bonham-Carter.
The dinner was delightful, and after it ended we moved to a brilliant tent and danced to the music of Lord John Somer- set's discotheque. Lord John eventually mixed with the guests, although his fiancée was nowhere in sight. Among the dancers I recognised many dear and old friends, such as Miss Atalanta Goulandris QC, Miss Suzy Murray Phillipson, Mr Ludovic Ken- nedy (who very kindly spoke to me about a matter known only to me and anyone who has bought a newspaper in the last three weeks) and some who are not very close friends such as Viscount Linley, Miss Susanna Constantine, and Roy Jenkins. The ladies were exceptionally chic, and the gentlemen too. At 6.31 a.m. I spotted a tall gentleman from Chicago in the beauti- ful gardens of Syon House. He gave the impression of doing some kind of exercise. He was naked. I left soon after and got home safe and sound. The time was 7.14 a.m.
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