High life
Joker
Taki
Coming back to London, dining at Aspinall's and drinking at Annabel's, was a welcome change after my selfen forced sobriety in Manchester. Karate, in its infinite wisdom, provided the impetus for self-negation until I was safely past the rigours of competition — then it was time for fun. The trouble is, however, that the thing I prize most, freedom, is costly, a prize taken only by the very rich, the very brave or the very careless. I am of the latter variety. Like a dope addict, I am a sucker for accelerating sensations. And that is how one gets into trouble. Take for example last Monday, my first night out after Manchester. My old fag at Eton, Jake Morley, is getting married in December and I thought it might be nice for me to give a dinner in his honour after all the beastly things I made him do at our old alma mater. Jake is marrying Davina Sheffield, a very beautiful and nice girl who unfortunately is better known for having gone out with 'Jug-Ears' than for the fact that she went to South Vietnam and tended orphans without giving out a press release. I have a soft spot in my heart for Davina because of that.
So what I thought was going to be a big night started with drinks at Jake's house. I had some Manchester left-overs in mine, and past experience has taught me that martial arts purists and my social friends don't mix very well. No sooner had we started getting down to some serious snorts than some workers began complaining about having to work the next day. Although I might sound spoiled, there is nothing more depressing than having set out to have a good time and suddenly hearing people mention work and the next day. It's like going out with a girl for the first time, someone you've fancied for ages, and having her make clear even before you've made a move that this is going to be a platonic relationship. Only worse, because we all know that men mean what they say but when women say no they mean maybe, when they say maybe they mean yes, and when they say yes they're no ladies.
I was eventually hustled out and forced to go to Mark's for dinner where I was torn between the Scylla of the price of the Chateau Latour and the Charybdis of my friends threatening to go home any minute. The only amusing moment of the evening was when my friend Harry Somerset told a joke that I found so funny I stood up and repeated it for the benefit of the fat cats dining away at their companies' expense. Needless to say, nobody laughed — which proves my theory about executives — but I will repeat it for the benefit of you loyal Spectator readers, if only to prove to myself that one can be a capitalist and still think that business folk are the ignorant, self
opinioned, streptococcus-ridden kind I believe them to be. A young boy in a French class raises his hand and asks to be excused in order to go to the lavatory. The master, in keeping with the spirit of the class, answers, `oui, oui."Non monsieur,' says the little boy, 'plop, plop.' Now I found that so funny that, as I said before, I went around the restaurant repeating it, only to be confronted with vacant stares and some rather rude remarks. Even the waiters, or waitpersons as they say in America, were embarrassed, in fact everyone was, with the exception of the author of the joke. My feeble effort to amuse was followed by an even feebler one to pay. I had forgotten that in times of stress the English upper classes tend to drink more than usual. These are times of stress and, after all, a foreigner was swinging for the bill. Luckily I was allowed to sign and managed to make a more or less dignified exit.
The good thing about Mark's is that it is literally a stone's throw from Annabel's. Although half of my guests had bowed out, I pressed on bravely with couple of girls who only drank orange juice. Then it was back to Cathcart Road and real trouble when the juice drinkers decided to call it a night. Instead of going to bed I began ringing people until I found someone who was in a similar state.
I have recently discovered that the time like best is the morning, after having been up all night. Conversation becomes full of ellipses and swallowed phrases, more gestures than speech. Perhaps it is a subconscious desire to be a baby again. I'll have to ring Clement Freud and find out.
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