Publicity seeking
Taki
Imust he going senile. Last week I wrote about my cricket heroics in the Hanbury-Goldsmith clash of giants in Dorset, the trouble being it was in Devon. Nothing quite like getting it wrong, but then that's what happens when writing under the influence. Or perhaps it had something to do with Devon being aswarm with genuine Italian and Greek nobility ... and only a few whores, a definite distraction. Just kidding. On Thursday night I left Tramp at closing time and brought back some friends in order to watch the England-Brazil game. It was not to be. By the time 7.30 rolled around everyone had passed out and I got the good news early in the afternoon. I hope no one is offended, but an English victory would have meant Cherie and Tony leading the parade, with Black Rod hanging in effigy. Ditto if Tim Henman pulls it off. Let's face it. If Hen
man gets into the final Blair will be in the royal box elbows at the ready, and woe to the Duke of Kent if he tries to get in the way.
Mind you, everyone has been seeking publicity in a very aggressive manner lately, starting with Boy George, who was banned from a gay club for brawling. Boy George doing a Mike Tyson is quite a feat. Last week, down in Somerset, I went to a marvellous party that Nicholas and Victoria von Preussen gave for the birthdays of their three daughters. While chatting up an extremely attractive lady, her son came up to me and told me to lay off. I told him to fuck off, but very politely. For a moment I thought he would throw a punch, but then he laughed and it was all over. People have strange reactions when they drink. I become extremely passive and nice, others turn aggressive and nasty.
Eighteen years or so ago, at a London ball, I went into the loo in order to commit an illegal act. Just as I was finishing, I looked up and saw Lucian Freud who had crawled up the wall and was staring down at me. I lost my temper, pushed him back down, and then came out and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. Freud. who didn't know me from Adam, was rude and dismissive. I should have punched him out, but he was back then three years younger than I am now, and I was brought up not to hit old men. Years later, in the Big Bagel, he was yet again rude, and again I gave him a pass. Perhaps I should beat the shit out of his nephew, Mr Murdoch, as I don't believe he has a son.
I happen to know Freud's current girlfriend, and had dinner with her not so long ago in New York. She's a nice person but I couldn't help telling her what I think of that bum. England's greatest living painter? Who the hell says so? He's grim, he's austere, he's mannered, he's relentless, he's depressing and he draws like a foot. My friend Matthew Carr draws better with his eyes closed, so there. Just because the hucksters who benefit from jacking up the prices tell us how great Freud is doesn't mean we have to fall for it. He is a minor painter, and as the great Brian Sewell wrote, no more than a footnote in history.
Having got that off my chest, let me tell you about another artist, also foreign-born, Sir Tom Stoppard. In my opinion he is the world's greatest living playwright, an exceptionally intelligent writer, an epigrammatic, witty, graceful and elegant artist who uplifts the human spirit though his art, a Lucian Freud in reverse. And while I'm at it, what about Antony Beevor's Berlin book? It has to be the definitive study of the fall of that city and the end of the Third Reich. I've just finished it and it's even better than Stalingrad. Claus von Bulow had us all to lunch last week, Antony, Andrew Roberts. Conrad Black, John Gross, Alexander Walker and poor little old me among all that talent.
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