Just say no
Taki
Iike everyone else, I might as well get my two-cents in while the story's still hot. About the sainted one's problems with Liverpool, that is. What a crock! I might be accused of pandering, but to hell with them. When I went over the top about the Puerto Rican parade some time ago, it looked like curtains. The then Big Bagel mayor Rudy Giuliani threatened to have me deported, and all sorts of busybodies got in on the act. But no one from The Spectator forced me to do anything like what Michael Howard did to dear old Boris. In fact, on the contrary, Frank Johnson even went so far as to introduce me during a Speccie dinner as the Puerto Rican ambassador to the Court of St James's; a very nice touch, I thought.
The one who got it right about the present brouhaha was the other Michael (Gove), in the Times. 'Alongside the disciplined ranks of parliamentary infantry, we need a few cossacks ...' In other words, individuality and personality count. Crushing individuality, however, is what modern Tories are all about, and that's why they're running as badly as they are in the polls. Once upon a time Tories and freedom of expression were synonymous. (Can you see Super Mac or the Iron Lady ordering an apology?) No longer. Boris might be a bit of a loose cannon, but since when has that been a bad thing?
Howard is a lawyer, with a lawyer's fear of ugly truths and political incorrectness. The Spectator speaks for Middle England, and does not and should not mince its words. If people misunderstood what the leading article was all about, too bad. Apologising may be the flavour du jour nowadays, but we at the Speccie march to a different drummer. End of story.
And while on the subject of doing things differently from the rest of the pack, I keep finding old paintings of mine in catalogues listing works of art up for auction. The latest is the Greek sale at Sotheby's on 16 November. The trouble is that I've never sold any of these paintings, but have given them away while under the influence. The Greek one in question is estimated at ,E30,000 to £.40,000, not had for a night's work, although if memory serves it was a bit more than that. Be that as it may, I must stop drinking when in my house because that's when I get into trouble and start to hand out things I've inherited.
The very first one I gave away was to a man. No, it's not what you think. He was a friend of mine who insisted life was unfair and that I had a lot and he had nothing. I was drunk, felt sorry for him, and took a Van Dongen off the wall and gave it to him. It was one of Van Dongen's first oils, 'Along the Canal', portraying a sailor walking in Venice. This was around 25 years ago. To my friend's credit, it still hangs on his wall. I cannot say the same about a wonderful Aivazovsky, a major Russian painting of 1851, which I gave to an Armenian hooker 15 years ago.
It was in Greece, in my penthouse, and there were some ladies of the night around. One of them began to cry, and when I asked her what was wrong, or if anyone had bothered her, she explained that Armenia had just had a terrible earthquake and she was worried about her family. Needless to say, my heart sank. Off came the painting, which she took home forthwith.
About ten years ago, again at Sotheby's, I saw it up for auction. I made a bid but did not get it. It went for around £100,000. As I told the Sotheby's lady, that's £100,000 for the f— I never had. (She looked nonplussed, to say the least.)
Never mind. The only one I regret is the one my brother got off me. I was dining with him and my mother, who was upset that we don't get along. 'Of course we do,' I told her. 'Why don't you go up and take a painting,' I proposed to him. He went up quicker than you can say Neil Armstrong, and picked the best and biggest I had. (No, he has not sold it, but there's always time.) What this drunken `dis-collecting' reminds me of is the Dorothy Parker quote about a woman who spoke 18 languages but couldn't say no in any of them. I've inherited a lot of pictures but can't seem to keep them when a sweet young thing approaches me while I'm under the influence. And some not so sweet men, for that matter. Down deep, I must be a Liverpudlian because I feel very sorry for myself just now.
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