High life
As good as it gets
Taki
Dear, oh dear! Why can't the hacks ever get it right? Andrew Pierce in the Times breathlessly reported how Alan Clark was at Carla Powell's Referendum Party dinner last Friday night. He was defi- nitely there — in spirit I imagine — but Alan is waiting for Tory Party selection and wisely stayed away. But it was a good story. It harms Clark's chances of being selected to a safe seat and hints that the Referen- dum Party is made up of a bunch of rich Thatcher-lovers. The facts, of course, are different.
Let's begin with the parties. Political conferences are known to hold shindigs that at times turn into drunken affairs, but, from what I witnessed, the only two drunks at Brighton were the ex, ex, ex-sainted one, Alexander Chancellor, and yours truly. I can't speak for Alexander — after all, he writes for the Guardian, so he may have taken pain-killers and orange juice — but the reason the poor little Greek boy became confused was the atmosphere. It was as good as it gets. The people who attended were as far removed from the glitz as Tara, the tiger, is from our very own Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. These were serious, hard-working people concerned that their sovereignty has been passed on to Brussels by the unscrupulous types that have lorded it over us since the war. No more, no less. They were serious, good- humoured and above all British to the core.
Carla Powell's dinner for 'important hacks' was co-hosted by Maya Schoenburg, whom the hacks refer to as Schoenberg. I tried to point out to some that one was a dead Jewish composer of note, while our hostess was alive and a German countess, but not to worry. Hacks rarely get it right, and what's a misspelling here and there. The dinner was purported to be a grand affair. It was nothing of the kind. The ser- vice was perfect, as was the food and wine, but it stuck to its purpose, which was Jimmy Goldsmith answering questions from up close.
Leave it to the bald hack from — where else? — the Guardian to accuse Sir James of inconsistency because 20 years ago Jimmy received a knighthood from Harold Wilson. (Having saved Slater-Walker and having put his money where his mouth was, Jimmy deserved it, but go figure, as they say in Brooklyn, why envious hacks, whose talents mostly lie in claiming phoney expenses, have to read a sinister plot when- ever someone deserving gets his due.) I thought Jimmy should not have explained, but he has become awfully patient with the unmentionable ones now that he's heading a serious party.
But back to the good times. Sure there were pretty girls there, but since when does one have to apologise for beauty? David Mellor I am sure would have felt out of place — there were no de Sanchas around — but that is how the cookie crumbles.
Mellor, incidentally, said the Referen- dum Party was an outfit of 'glitz and spuri- ous social climbers'. Oy veh! He reminds me of the man who took his wife to the doctor because she had VD and as soon as the doctor heard it gave himself a penicillin shot. Mellor is scared stiff so he's now slinging the mud. I guess he's used to the types he and Mona Bauwens ran into in Marbella. Had he been in Brighton and seen the quality of persons attending, he may not have been so glib. Or vulgar for that matter.
What I enjoyed the most was the bar at the Grand. Kate Reardon, Sophia Pilking- ton, Cosima Somerset, Camilla Roberts, Emma, Marina and Rosa Hanbury, Jemi- ma Khan, Isabel Goldsmith, Lucy Fox, Vir- ginia Fraser .. . you get the picture. We all ended up after dinner around the piano with some awfully pretty young things. The only sour note was Ben Goldsmith, Jimmy's son aged 16. He's far too good looking and he's already crowding my style, grabbing the telephone number a geriatric- loving sweet young thing had handed me. If this type of thing keeps on I might be vot- ing for Sir Nicholas Scott. Ben's brother, Robin Birley, is his opponent in my Chelsea constituency.
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