High life
Carnal thoughts
Taki
As everyone who does not belong to the Mafia knows, a godfather is supposed to look after the spiritual welfare of his godchild and, with a little bit of luck, the financial one too. In the birthplace of dem- agoguery and big tits, the financial side is what counts. My father had more godchil- dren than Ali Baba had thieves, and when he was chairman of AEK, a first-division Athenian football club, I too ended up bap- tising a slew of little footballers. This was
20 years ago, during the good old days of the Colonels, when Olympic Airways stew- ardesses were saying no only to the auto- matic pilot. Now all my godchildren have grown up and they keep popping up in the strangest places. Although I say so myself, I'm a lucky godfather to have. None of my godchildren has done a Basualdo, or even a Taki.
My first English godchild was Marco Gilmour, son of Oliver and named after Marco van Basten, yet one more football connection. My second is Romy Somerset, the three-month-old baby of John and Cosima Somerset and seventh grandchild of the Duke and Duchess of Beaufort. The christening took place last weekend at mighty Badminton, in as warm and joyful an atmosphere as is possible. Mind you, I took exception when Caroline Beaufort pointed out that while renouncing the devil and repenting our sins, my voice was the loudest among the godparents.
In the birthplace of b.t., a christening is a long and loud affair. The baby is dipped underwater three times and hot oil poured all over. Over here, things are simpler. The Reverend Tom Gibson asked us to repent and follow Christ's way and after sprinkling a little water on Romy we all went to lunch. The Reverend Tom told me that he was in a quandary because the C of E is about to ordain women priests. He was thinking of switching to the Greek Orthodox Church. I hope he does. Good men like him have no business in a Church which in a short time will announce God to be a lesbian.
My problem, needless to say, was that while in the middle of repenting, I was hav- ing carnal thoughts about some of the god- mothers. Having got dead drunk the night before did not help. The library in Bad- minton is large and cosy, and people can- not get away from the drunken bore easily. And I'm told I was extremely boring that night. But that's what good friends are for — to forgive. (Incidentally, I've been asked by Sophia Pilkington and Cosima Somer- set, Nico Fame's daughters, to inform any Spectator readers who were friends of Nico's that there will be a memorial service for her on Monday, 22 November, in St James's Piccadilly, at 12 noon.)
I arrived at Badminton already wounded from the night before after a wonderful dinner dance at Daphne's, the trendy restaurant owned by Mogens and Paola Tholstrup, more often than not described as the best-looking couple in London. I sat between Joan Collins and Britt Eldand,
'We're almost out of tartare sauce.'
and after a while I slipped out with Joan and a friend for a quickie at Annabel's.
The trouble was I returned after drop- ping Joan. I was looking for the love of my life, whom I've met once briefly, Isabel Sar- torius, ex-fiancée of the Spanish crown prince. (What fools these royals are. They could do much worse than Isabel, who is as nice as she's beautiful.) Not that night, however. She cut me dead, giving me a good reason to seek oblivion.