High life
Under the table
Taki
I've had the kind of week that would have exhausted Sisyphus. I tried to prepare for it by steaming to Mykonos for some R&R, but as is usually the case in that randy island I left in far worse shape. The fact that I had two dizzy blondes with me, the Evans girls, plus Leonidas Goulandris and Danny Daggenhurst, did not help. All four are boozers par excellence, as well as night-owls, so it was back to London and a week of parties with a liver that must surely by now resemble that of Jeff Bernard's.
The first round went to Conde Nast, whose benevolent owner, Si Newhouse, is an Anglophile as well as the only man who buys two tickets whenever he visits a zoo
(one to get in, the other to get out). Si owns the Tina Brown, as well as Vanity Fair, Tatler, Vogue, Coleridge and Wintour. The
only thing English he doesn't own is Christopher's, so he threw a party there to
introduce Graydon Carter, the new Vanity Fair chief, to the restaurant's staff, because everyone else already knew Graydon rather well.
The piece de resistance came later in the Bombay Brasserie, yet another establish- ment Newhouse does not own, where major artists like Tony Snowdon and Nigel Dempster mixed with hoi polloi of Fleet Street. To give you an idea of the spirit of the party, when Lizzie Spender, wife of Barry Humphries and daughter of the poet, told me how wonderful Edna was looking, I said to her, 'And how well he writes, too'. I thought she meant Dame Edna Everage, but Lizzie was talking about our neighbour at the table, Edna O'Brien. Well, I'm sure some of you have been confused by drink at times, so I soon made my excuses and left for Harry and Tracy Worcester's house, Where Imran Khan was celebrating his 40th birthday. Once there, things got worse. In fact I fell under the table for a while, some- thing that hasn't happened to me since I was a youth. Seeing Mark Shand did not help. In my confusion I mistook him for his sister, Camilla Parker-Bowles, so I got rather nervous. Luckily I live almost next to the Worcesters, so my dizzy little blonde took me home safe and sound.
After that came time for culture. Despite the Karamazovian hangover, I dragged myself to Agnew's, where John Wonnacott is exhibiting. Wonnacott's art is remark- able, and he's as important an artist as Lucian Freud. Emily Oppenheimer, on the Other hand, is more beautiful. In fact, she's one of the prettiest girls around, and a very accomplished artist, too. She is showing at the Cadogan Gallery, where I must admit I went hoping to catch a glimpse of the artist as well as of her art. Finally a quick look in
at Roy Miles, where Barbara Carrera's por- traits were being exhibited. I like Roy
Miles, a decent man who appeals to the non-art-buying public and who has done more for poor Russian painters than any of the snobs in his profession.
And speaking of snobs, I see Fergie is once again on the go. She is in Germany
researching a book at the same time as the Queen is visiting. Leave it to the redhead to do things right. I only hope that she and Johnny Bryan do not spend the millions they've sued for just yet. That they will win their case is beyond doubt. French courts are obliged to follow the law, and their pri- vacy was invaded, but unlike British courts and the ludicrous amounts they give out, the French may just rule that Fergie and Johnny should not become instant million- aires just because they decided to give each Other financial advice on French soil. But if they do make the couple of the year rich, m off to France with my dizzy blonde, and invite all paparazzi to snap away.
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