High life
Signs of the times
Taki
TNew York
erry Kramer is a widow, a billionheiress, a top New York, Palm Beach and Southampton, Long Island, hostess and about to become a Dame of the British Empire (some empire at present) for services rendered to broken-down English aristos. In fact, Terry is a one-woman Salvation Army for indigent Brits with the right accent. 'Never have so few given so much to so many freeloaders' should be her motto, but she's much too nice to say so. Her present chevalier-servant is Nick Simunek, ex of the Coldstream Guards and an investment genius who advised me to sell Microsoft short just about 20 years ago. He's a very nice fellow, but he has upset other Brits who live off Terry in Palm Beach, because it was he who insisted that doggy-bags would no longer be automatically handed out to people with red noses, peeling knees and elbows who arrive with bulging laundry bags and empty pockets.
Last week Terry threw a bash in her New York penthouse, one in which Donald Trump was not even among the 20 richest in the room — any room — and there were more of them than there are freeloaders in Palm Beach. As always, I was the last to leave, and much the worst for wear, but my hostess was rather sweet and tolerant, especially when I mistook one of her ancient Mexican maids for ex-Senator Al D'Amato and told her he was as bent as a pretzel. This was the bad news. The good is that I met a lady by the name of Kathryn Bryan who happens to live across the street from me on 71st Street.
Later that morning, unable to sleep and restless with lust, I went calling on her. When a large black man menacingly emerged and asked me. 'What the 1— do you think you're doin'?'. I kept my composure and sweetly remarked how she had changed. Mind you, it was for the worse, but I kept that little detail to myself. Obviously I had rung the wrong bell, but the menacing black man turned out to be a nice guy. 'Go home, you ain't in shape for nuttin'.' I wonder what he thought when he watched me go across the street and ring my own bell.
And speaking of being in shape, I came to the Bagel for a business meeting and some intensive karate training. I now own a dojo (gym) where my friend Richard Amos (like me a six-dan black belt) instructs rich people how to defend themselves. The reason for the intensive training is that come November in Tokyo the Japan Karate Association is holding a masters tournament in which I will compete in the 65s and over. I compete in veteran tennis without too many problems, but karate is different. Karate masters improve with age, so I thought I'd give myself a chance for a change. It is now exactly 35 years since I started karate, and not a day goes by that I don't thank my lucky stars that I did. There is no feeling that matches what one feels once a hard training session is over. After a tournament, of course, there's euphoria. relief and a sense of pride. I am speaking of old-fashioned, traditional hard karate, not the flicky, showy crap that one sees on TV nowadays. But back to parties.
The New York Times on Sunday ran a story about the Venice Siennale, and a conspicuous fête for which Sotheby's persuaded Count Giovanni Volpe [sic] to lend his magnificent palazzo for 400 souls to be entertained in. The Times would, wouldn't it? Misspell the name, that is. The man who wrote the piece is a Brit, Christopher Mason, and he obviously has never been invited to Palazzo Volpi under his own steam.
Even better, the Big Bagel Times lamented the fact that one David Furnish was refused admittance; at first, alas. If any of you have never heard of the man, not to worry. He's known for being Elton John's friend and profuse apologies were offered almost immediately by the top brass at Sotheby's. I guess it's a sign of the times. The man arrives without his recognisable roommate, and he manages to take offence. Oy veh! But it could have been worse. Instead of angry toy boys. Palazzo Volpi could have been infiltrated by the three Colombian female thieves who specialise in smearing their breasts with knockout drugs and inviting male motorists to lick them. While the men are unconscious, the women steal their wallets and cars. Mind you, Sir Elton and Ms Furnish would never have fallen for that old trick.
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