High life
Lost cause
Taki
MRougemont y last week in the Alps and it's just as well. I don't think I've ever felt as par- tied-out as I feel at present, which means it's time to go home to mother, or, as the case may be, the mother of my children. Home nowadays is the Big Bagel, dirty, noisy and full of non-stop expectorating ethnic minorities, but, compared to a Lon- don run by the Blair clowns, a Shangri-La. For the life of me I cannot understand why I suddenly think London is such a pisshole. I still have all my friends there, still am in good standing in the two St James's clubs I belong to, still know plenty of young girls willing to go to dinner with an old man. Mario at Harry's Bar, Ted and John at Annabel's still greet me with affection whenever I arrive under the influence, and I am still allowed to shout and throw food at Aspinall's, the one and only gambling club that's grander than a ducal residence and whose staff present dukes could take lessons in manners from.
No, I'm afraid London is a lost cause, and some of you will not have the poor lit- tle Greek boy to kick around any more, especially as my daughter has requisitioned my Cadogan Square flat while pursuing an acting life. (Or an actor's life, as some fern- inised buffoons would call it.) Until June, that is, when 1 shall return with a vengeance for my London season, because the capital in June turns gay (in the old sense of the word) despite the fact that the clown of clowns, Ken Livingstone, will be lording it over us. And speaking of gays, my definition of a nice English boy is Peter Mandelson. All I can say about his 'chinless wonders' remark that hasn't already been said is that, in my country, had a minister made such a gaffe, he would have taken a bullet up his arse quicker than you can say 'Hello, sailor'. What I'm not so sure about are Robert Hardman's remarks in the Daily Telegraph; he said that had Mandy used the phrase to describe members of a gentlemen's club, he would never have apologised — i.e. it's per- fectly all right to abuse toffs, but not all right at all to abuse trade unionists or the working class. However rare the case, Hardman is dead wrong. Until recently, and I am proud to continue the tradition, both Jeff Bernard and myself have always described the great unwashed as `oiks' and people like Blair, Mandelson, Cook and Straw as common little men who should at all times use the tradesmen's entrance. This is the great tragedy. No one ever calls a spade a spade any more. Whereas once upon a time we had Attlee, Bevan and Bevin, even Crossman and Tony Benn, we now have the previously named quartet playing Big Chief. Whereas once upon a time we had Lords Denning and Stevenson, we now have to put up with grotesques like Lenny Hoffmann. But back to more pleasant subjects, like my friend Jonathan Aitken. Reading the Sunday Times and his mea culpa, I still can- not understand how perjury can be pun- ished while forgery is not. Mohamed Fayed and the Guardian conspired in forging a signature and entrapping Jonathan. Why was Aitken the only one prosecuted? Why didn't the fuzz go after Preston, Rusbridger and Fayed, all three conspirators in a forgery? And while I'm at it, why haven't the fuzz gone after Fayed for the Tiny Rowland safe-deposit box? Just because he paid back what went missing, does that make it all right? If I rob a bank, get caught, but pay back what I stole, does that make it all hunky-dory? Something very wrong here, as they say. Needless to say, the double standard rules OK. 'Can a man branded a liar ever be trusted by the public again?' asks a hack of Jonathan Aitken. Well, Blair, Cook, Mandelson and Straw have lied again and again, and will continue to lie because it works. Blair is a Clinton clone, and we've been Blaired to the point that truth no longer counts. Authenticity is to Blair and his gang what compassion was to Stalin and Mao. Remember Jimmy Carter? A non- president, but a decent man who got elect- ed on the uses of authenticity as a political slogan. 'I will never lie to you,' said the peanut farmer, and the American people elected him. Abe Lincoln was 'Honest Abe' and everyone knows about George Wash- ington and the cherry tree. No longer. Now the operative word is Blair, as in `to Blair'. The people who make the rules are Guardian types and their chief informant is Mohamed Fayed. No wonder the poor little Greek boy will spend the rest of his life on a Greek isle, in the Swiss Alps, and in the Bagel. And, as a small consola- tion to myself, I've ordered a beautiful motor-sailer with my friend George Nichol- son, to be delivered next year; it just might make life worth living without London.
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