High life
Just the one over
Taki
New York he only person who does not come under suspicion for having written 'Don't ban fox-hunting' on the back of Cherie Blair's place-card is yours truly. As some of You may have heard, our benevolent pro- prietor threw a high-powered dinner — one to end all dinners — on Monday 17 November. The poor little Greek boy made the cut, but never made the dinner. I had to fly out two days after arriving in London for Jimmy Goldsmith's memorial service because of a family reason. I asked my sec- retary — sorry, personal assistant — to apologise and cancel. Someone, of course, goofed. Come Monday evening, my place- card and empty seat were there for every- one to see.
Mind you, I don't think either the Prime Minister or his wife were shattered by my absence — the only other person to miss it was Gianni Agnelli; he broke his hip, but some unkind souls spread the rumour that I was lying in some gutter dead drunk. For once, however, I was innocent. What really bothers me is that I missed a great party.
And speaking of great parties, a lady, to whom I gave my word I would not name, gave the most terrific dinner in the Bagel in honour of William F. Buckley's 72nd birth- day. Henry Kissinger spoke in his usual witty and self-deprecating manner. Then came Christopher Buckley, Bill's son, and trust me when I say to you he gave a speech which was the verbal equivalent of the floating effortlessness of Fred Astaire. Rupert Murdoch, Tom Wolfe, Irving Kris- tol, many pretty ladies — you get the pic- ture. Two weeks before, in a celebration of Bill Buckley's Firing Line — the longest- running political chat-show on American television — I was asked to say a few words along with Mike Wallace, George Plimpton and Christopher. For once, I did not make a fool of myself. (I saved that for the day after in London, at Spencer House.) It is now clear to me that it all comes down to one drink. I can drink a bottle of wine and still make sense. But one glass after one bottle and it's curtains. Last Sun- day evening, Sotheby's threw a bash for David Tang to celebrate the opening of his new super-store on Madison Avenue. I had a very good seat between Mrs Winston Churchill and Serena Boardman, a girl I fancy. Alas, I drank the extra glass and began to psychobabble. The chairman of Sotheby's, Al Taubman, took it all in great humour. I'm not so sure about Jeremy Irons or Michael Heseltine. I think I engaged them in a one-way conversation, which I suspect did not best please them.
Later on at Elaine's I ran into my NBF, Stephen Morris, billing and cooing with George Bronfrnan. (George is a very sexy lady with a man's name.) Morris is a hell of a fellow. He is not yet 33 but has made over 100 million big ones. His parents are younger than the poor little Greek boy. He is not only a gentleman he is also the first Englishman to buy me lunch, an almost unheard of act among gents of the English persuasion.
This is the good news. The bad is that Winston Churchill was spot on 17 years ago when he resigned over Rhodesia. It is prob- ably one of Lady Thatcher's only mistakes. (If there is another, it is not having sacked the Wets earlier; in fact, she should never have included them.) Mugabe was and is the African equivalent of Lucky Luciano. There are 9 million acres which belong to his kleptocratic government which could be used for resettlement. Yet he leaves them idle while he steals the land which the whites have made productive.
I cannot think of anything more horrify- ingly unjust. The Rhodesian whites fought for England and made a paradise of the jungle. Their thanks were sanctions. Instead of fighting alongside them against the terrorists we helped bring them to their knees. Now we will wash our hands while Mugabe steals their lands. These, needless to say, will become unproductive in no time, as everything tends to do in Africa when 'the people' take over.
This is a good lesson. Never trust the English, nor the Americans, for that mat- ter. Tax-payers are paying millions to pro- tect the unspeakable, unreadable and phoney Salman Rushdie, who made his name insulting and abusing Britain and Mrs Thatcher. Not a penny will go to help the whites whose fathers fought for Britain. Go figure, as they say in Brooklyn.
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