High life

Too old to move Taki

New York

When I first began this column in 1977 all I did was describe my wild partying at Annabel's and Tramp, plus my regular forays on: a) Bushido, my sailing boat, b) Bruern Abbey, my rented ancestral country seat in Oxfordshire, c) the GreenGo of Gstaad, d) Xenon and Studio 54, of Big Bagel nightclub renown. It was an easy col- umn to write, made easier by the fact that back then it was one big name-drop, an unheard-of occurrence in the elegant but formal Speccie pages.

Well, in no time Jeff Bernard and I low- ered the bar, so to speak, Jeff being the first writer ever to use the F-word. When I emulated him, the copy was spiked, and I was told that the F-word was permitted in 'Low life' for accuracy's sake ... this is how people talk in the Coach and Horses, but not in Annabel's'.

Twenty-two years later, name-dropping sure ain't what it used to be. Nightclubs nowadays are full of lawyers and invest- ment bankers, and when was the last time anyone dropped a shyster lawyer's name? They are also full of professional gays and PR types; the latter, with their insincere, metallic smiles, as unappealing a crowd as I have never seen outside Cannes during the- month of August. Ergo, the column slowly evolved into one long lament about lost elegance and the disappearance of good manners. Mind you, my liver had a lot to do with it. One can't write from home about the high life in nightclubs. Back in the good old days, especially when on

board Bushido, I could drink and stay up

for four days and nights running, with a couple of hours of rest in between binges.

No longer. Two nights of celebration and I'm out for the rest of the week. Last year I missed three great parties in a row because I'd overdone things at the beginning of the week. Last week I missed two great parties in London because I was in the Bagel and

felt too old to move. So I sent the mother of my children and my two kids instead, and they came back declaring that London is the place to have a good time.

Needless to say, I now regret it like hell. Not having flown over, that is. Alexandra left on the morning flight, and the kiddies followed in the evening. With one hour to departure time, they were still giggling and

trying to get their act together. Then they

kissed me goodbye and clattered down the stairs, screaming and laughing, and I was left alone. I live in what Americans, with great economy of expression, call a brown- stone. The house was all lit up, and my only companions were three dogs, two cats, and two South American ladies who speak an unknown dialect. So I opened two very good bottles of frog red and proceeded to have a good time. Sending others to enjoy themselves is what getting old is all about.

Yet the idea of missing a party is as alien to me as, say, grace is to Jack Straw. At three in the morning I began ringing people. There were no takers. Just as well.

Then the news began trickling in. The blast was given by Marina Palma, an Italian lady who lives in London, for the occasion of her daughter's wedding. It took place in West Wycombe, in that most beautiful of houses which belongs to Sir Francis Dash- wood. The belles of the ball were the young, with golden oldies such as the great Valentino, Joan Collins, Rupert and Robin Hambro and Nan Kempner lending gravi- tas.

And now for some real name-dropping. On the following Monday, with people still recovering from the Saturday ball, my old

buddy Nicky Haslam, looking 25 if a day, thanks to the greatest face-lift ever, threw

his 60th birthday party in London. Three years ago Nicicy flew over for my 60th, but then he's a better man than yours truly.

Apparently I missed out on the real deal.

From Mick Jagger, to Bryan Ferry, to the Ahmed Erteguns, to David Rocksavage, to Prince Nicolas of Greece and Kyril of Bul- garia, to the young Livanos girls, to Serena Boardman, to Cosima and Claus von Billow, everyone was there except the poor little Greek boy. NicIcy changed his outfit twice during his own party, from black to white leather and then to some mediaeval contraption that would have shocked the Spanish Inquisi- tors. Thanks, Marina, and thanks, Nicicy, but you should have warned me that you were about to pull out all the stops, as they say in Brooklyn. Now the only thing left to do is Paris, where my friend Thomas Porn- pidou, the grandson of President Pompi- dou, is getting hitched in October.

I'm flying to Athens for the launch of my new book, and on the way back I'm stop- ping in Paris. Enough of the quiet life. As my little boy (no longer little at 18 and half a foot taller than me) said upon his return, 'Daddy, why do you always do things wrong?'