High life
Well oiled
Taki
When two months ago I received a letter from Emma Hanbury, a friend of long standing, asking me to a surprise party for her husband's 40th birthday in their farmhouse in Normandy, I realised yet again that tempus fugit. It seemed only yes- terday that her then husband-to-be, Tim, had pulled one of the funniest if somewhat childish pranks ever. Actually it was about 20 years ago.
The way it happened was this: Timmy came out of Annabel's well oiled, as they say, and quicker than you can say sayonara spotted an enormous bus idling outside, packed with Japanese tourists. The driver was across the street from the club, happily relieving himself in the middle of the green of Berkeley Square.
Despite his inebriated state Timmy man- aged to close the automatic door and nego- tiate the first curve without anyone being the wiser. But that is when he began to sideswipe cars, not purposely, mind you, but because he had never driven such a large vehicle before.
He then sped into a rather narrow lane where the bus ran out of side-room and crunched to a halt. By this time even the stoic Japanese were screaming for help, which was on its way once the now relieved bus driver had realised what had happened. Timmy, however, was long gone back to Annabel's. When the furious fuzz arrived at the club, Sidney, the then head barman and as cool a customer as one can find any- where, insisted that 'Mr Hanbury never left the bar except to go to the gents'.
In appreciation of Sidney's 'the customer is always right' spirit, Timmy contributed a silver cup to the winner of what became the annual Hanbury race, a one-lap sprint around Berkeley Square at 4 a.m. The last race was run just as Sidney was dying of cancer about six years ago.
So, last weekend I flew from the Big Olive to the Big G (for garlic), where two old buddies, a well-known London restau- rateur and his brother, a symphony orches- tra conductor, were waiting, and we drove down to Normandy. I did not regret it. All the old friends were there: Harry and Tracy Worcester, Jasper Guinness, Victoria von Preussen, Jake and Davina Morley and my NBF Alexander Mosley with his wife Char- lotte (whom I mistook for his daughter), son of Sir Oswald and the beautiful Diana Mitford. Alexander is a very interesting and nice man, and a loyal Spectator reader.
The problem of hiding the fact of 75 friends suddenly arriving in a tiny Norman village — among them numerous loud Hoorays — was solved by tricking our host to a lunch in Deauville, where bottle after bottle of his favourite drink, Calvados, was literally poured down his throat. He was then taken to an inn where he was advised to sober up before going home (Emma isn't exactly overjoyed when Timmy does a Taki). By now, however, many had gotten into the spirit of things, and from my room I could hear such beauties as, It's a beauti- ful country, too bad about the Frogs,' being shouted down at the locals. To say I remained sober in such an atmosphere would be like saying Bill Clinton was a war hero, but I nevertheless made the lunch in Trouville the next day, a lunch place, I might add.
But then it was all downhill. The restau- rateur, the conductor and I decided to hit the Deauville casino with a vengeance. We forgot all about our flight to London and checked into the Normandy. Unfortunate- ly, while gambling, we mistook a beautiful blonde for a pro, and asked her to join us back at the hotel. Confused by liquor we misunderstood her outrage, in fact we thought she was trying to jack up the price. Alas, she turned out to be the wife of an important French industrialist gambling at the next table, so we made our excuses and left with our pride not exactly intact. 'Les anglais sont pire que les boches,' was the nicest thing hurled at us.
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