High life
Their Excellencies
Taki
The draft-dodger in the White House has chosen Jean Smith, mother of Willy, sister of Ted, and aunt of Joe, as envoy to Ireland. I am outraged. During the Sixties I knew her and her husband, Steve Smith, Well. Jean was friendly, as was Steve, but there was something crude about them, the way there is with every member of the Kennedy clan. The reason I'm outraged is that the Kennedys give comfort to the IRA — no ifs or buts about it — and following the atrocity in Warrington, it is simply not on.
Speaking of envoy posts for sale, I won- der what Pamela Harriman's qualifications are to be ambassador to France? She made her money the old-fashioned way, one of which I approve, but that does not a stateswoman make. If rich men did not keep women it would be a far poorer world, but a kept woman's place is in bed, not in the Place de la Concorde.
Clinton has defended the appointment by calling her a close friend and a French speaker. It is a pathetic attempt to justify an ambassadorial appointment. What about a parrot then? Some of them even speak frog, and I know at least two presi- dents who were close to their birds but did not send them to represent Uncle Sam. In all seriousness, Pam's qualifications are those of someone in protocol — that is, a social secretary. The probable reason Pamela asked to be sent to Paris is that she is happy to be outside the country when two critical biographies are published next year. One by Sally Bedell Smith — who did to Bill Paley what Guderian's tanks did to the Maginot Line — and another by Chris Ogden, with whom she collaborated, but quit when he asked too many questions about foreign affairs, and by that I don't mean foreign policy.
Even this pales in the stomach-churning stakes when compared to Fergie's latest shenanigans. One thing I don't agree with is that John Bryan is getting the worst of it. I had dinner with Bryan last week, and the impression I got was that he takes orders and does not give them. The redhead has simply gone off her rocker with self-impor- tance, crassness and vulgarity — she says things like 'the only person who really understands me is . . . Elton John'. What I find disgusting is the way her two little girls are paraded about, without whom there wouldn't be two extra detective-flunkies and two nannies, all paid for by you-know- who.
The damage-control exercise by Fergie (one of those old fogies in the House of Lords should stand up and say something about calling her something other than HRH) may have backfired. It will be inter- esting to find out what Jocelyn Stevens will do to try and keep his job. His rich and very fat paramour, Vivien Clore, has been threatening to get the poor little Greek boy ever since my article two weeks ago about her behaviour.
But I've got news for both of them. One cannot push people around — especially people who are not as rich or powerful and expect to be popular. 'Elle se conduit trop mal,' was the way a Belgian countess put it. Ditto Stevens. Anyone who loves fir- ing people must either be a sadist or have an infantile personality, however first rate a mind he may possess — which Stevens does.
What I'd like to propose to him is that he comes to work for me. I have a hell of a lot of dead wood as employees, but have never been able to fire anyone in my life. He should come in and clean house. It will make Taki richer, Stevens happy, and English Heritage happiest of all.
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