High life
That was no lady
Taki
It all began quite innocently. There I was, happily finishing a fun evening in Tramp, when a Persian friend had the brilliant idea of keeping the action going in an after-hours club near Regent Street. As Rocky Graziano once said, `I shoulda stood in bed.'
The good news is that I don't remember a lot. Alas, one of the things I recall is a young man — an avid reader of The `It's the greenhouse effect.' Spectator as it turned out — asking me to intercede with the heavies who decide who's allowed into the joint. I tried, but in my confused state, I don't think I did him much good. In fact he never made it. Chalk one up for loyalty to Speccy readers.
The other memory was even worse. Once inside, a beautiful woman standing at the bar gave me the old come-on, and after we had had a drink or two we made plans to leave and live happily ever after in Cadogan Square. But on our way out we ran into Luigi Fellini and Christopher Gilmour, two people I was trying to avoid because of their nasty habit of poaching other people's women. But thank God they were there.
And cackling like hyenas. When I in- quired what was so funny, I was informed by Signor Fellini that I was about to spend the night with the best-known transvestite south of Hamburg. In the state I was in it came as a shock, but come to think of it, her — his, rather — voice was rather deep.
Three nights later, at the Christie's auction in the Big Bagel, I looked at the motley crowd and thought what a lady my transvestite was by comparison. Mind you, I was sober, but never have I seen such lean and hungry looks from so many fat people. When the Van Gogh passed the 40 million mark, a woman sitting next to the mother of my children began making the kind of noises hookers make when they're in a hurry. An elderly man sweated so profusely he had to be hosed down like a racehorse. Everyone cheered when the bidding reached 50 million (everyone but the Duke of Beaufort and the wife, that is).
When it was all over there was a collective orgasmic sigh, and then it was time for my Dali to come under the hammer. It was like putting in two flyweights immediately after the Tyson-Douglas brawl.
And speaking of brawls, the Big Bagel has finally had it. We have four black gentlemen to thank for it: Al Sharpton, a police informer and alleged drug dealer, Vernon Mason, a lawyer who acted for a big-time crack baron, Alton Maddox, dit- to, and one Sonny Carson, one-time aide to mayor David Dinkins but also a con- victed rapist, extortionist and self-admitted white-hater par excellence. These four appear to have declared war on whites in general, and yellows in particular. They have asked the black community to boycott Korean stores, and `not to buy from people who don't look like us'.
This has been going on for four months. Until the New York Post began a series of articles, not a word was printed by the Big Bagel Times, a paper that sees fit to print mostly news about Israel and editorials against the unification of Germany. Mind you, Abe Rosenthal is a scream to read three times a week. But if he makes love the way he writes, I feel sorry for his wife. Next week I'm flying back to good old London. Ten days in the Bagel is enough to make me miss my transvestite.
Previous page
