High life
Sob stories
Taki
Charles Benson was the first English- man to befriend me upon my arrival on these shores, and despite a quarter of a century's hard drinking I remember the circumstances clearly. Even back then Benson had a seismographic alertness to people with money, and he relieved me of mine in no time at all. Something to do with his sick mother who was in desperate need of an operation that could only be performed in California. The next thing I knew the horse had come in last and his father was feeling poorly also.
Although Benson claimed to have been at Eton with me, I did not remember him, but I nevertheless continued to sponsor him for the next decade or so because of the people I was able to meet through him. Such gentlemen of the turf as Ted the Tulip, Fred (Three Fingers) Binns, and, last but not least, his flatmate, Philip Martyn, a.k.a. Filipo Martini or Felipe Martinez, as the situation warranted.
It was a wonderful time while it lasted, as they say, and it lasted until Benson decided to get married for the second time. (By then I had put both his sons from a previous marriage through Eton, and had managed to meet Madame Rosa of Shepherd Market, too.) A small problem arose with the seating at the grand lun- cheon he gave following the nuptials. His other major sponsor, the Aga Khan, was strangely reluctant to break bread with Taki, and this presented Benson with the first real dilemma of his life. Needless to say, he solved it in Solomonic fashion by placing his mother and me at a tiny table for two behind a curtain not too far away from the action. And with tears in his eyes he explained to me that under English custom the most honoured guest sat with the mother of the groom but not in view of the rest of 'les invitees'. I remember having a bit of a blub upon hearing it.
This was ten years ago. Benson went legit almost immediately after his mar- riage, and even began to go around with royals, an unheard-of breach of protocol for the rest of us. But because of his legendary charm all was forgiven, until last week that is. This is when I visited my favourite bookshop and, lo and behold, saw Benson's incredibly pink and bloated countenance staring back at me from the shelves. His autobiography is titled No Regard For Money, which should insure its immortality along with those two other classics of disinformation, Why Jews Are my Favourite People, by Adolf Hitler, and Compassion is my Middle Name, by Lav- renti Beria.
Not content with the omission of the words Other People's in the title, Benson then goes on to make me a lifelong enemy by referring to me only in passing (page 130) and accusing me of leaking an item to Nigel Dempster while on board the QEII on a transatlantic passage. This from a man — and I have it on the highest authority — who was instrumental in causing the power cuts of 1973 by his excessive use of the telephone while leaking items to various gossip columnists in exchange for the odd fiver.
Even worse, when I ran into him during a pro-am tennis tournament last week, he not only didn't apologise, he cheerfully asked me for a tenner and shoved a copy of his opus in my tennis bag.
Well, I am not surprised. With the kind of people my ex-friend Charles (Dickens) Benson sees nowadays, it would be almost impossible to keep up certain standards. Mind you, I am not alone in thinking this. Last Sunday, while dining chez Benson, I noticed his mantelpiece resembled a lunar surface, only barer. So I asked him whether he was going to the two rather smart balls I shall be attending this week, and he looked nonplussed. Being beastly to Taki in print has done for his social life what carrying an envelope through cus- toms did for mine not so long ago. I shall be thinking of him while dancing this Wednesday, and the two Saturdays that follow.
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