High life
Telling all
Taki
New York This must be the literary scoop of the century: Jan Cushing is penning her mem- oirs. For any of you who may be unaware of la Cushing, she was born Jan Golding here in the Bagel, married an extremely sun-tanned chap by the name of Del Cole- man — he was in casinos, or was it slot machines? — then in quick succession got hitched to my friend Freddy Cushing, my countryman Manoli Olympitis, and yet another nice guy, Minot Amory. For some strange reason she prefers• not to use the name Golding or Coleman, but styles her- self Cushing. She converted to Greek Orthodox from Judaism, a pretty brave thing to do here in the Bagel where most Greeks own coffee shops and souvlaki stands, while the Jews own Wall Street and all of the media.
Jan, who is blonde and pushing 50, is known in England for her friendship with Winston Churchill MP, one that ended rather abruptly when Churchill discovered paparazzi cropping up in even the most dis- creet of places. Jan, it seems, does not mind a little publicity. For their sake, I hope the men in her life don't either. Jan has been known to be rather indiscreet.
My favourite story is the one when she would call Henry Kissinger while he was in Paris for the Vietnam peace talks. She would talk dirty to him and a friend of mine who was present could hear Henry the K screaming, 'I haf told you time and again not to do dis, the French are bugging every- thing and everybody.' Although I've known her for 30 years and like her, I try and stay away. She once pretended to faint in the lift of the Sherry Netherland hotel claiming my looks had caused it. I knew right then and there the lady was nuts as well as danger- ous. Last week I was dining with some Greek friends and she stopped by with her latest beau, a French ambassador. 'Am I in it?' I asked. 'No, only important people,' she answered. Quite right.
Mind you, no matter what she writes or whom she lists it is bound to be an improve- ment over the opus of Nancy Friday, wife of Time Inc. editor-in-chief, Norm Pearls- tine. Now, dear Speccie readers, hold on to your hats. Mrs Pearlstine's non-fiction book is titled The Power of Beauty, and in it she breathlessly recounts how before she met her hubby 'I lived on oral sex and the teeniest, weeniest bit of penile entry ...' What I don't understand is the title. 'It is better to have loved and lost — than to have paid for it and not liked it' seems more appropriate. I wonder if Time maga- zine will run excerpts of her oral history. Time Warner can also make a film or a television series with 'I had a teeny weenie yellow polka dot peenie' as a theme song.
Worse, when American Tolstoys are not writing oral and penile history, they're after the dead. The latest hatchet job has been done on the divine Audrey Hepburn. I knew Audrey and she was wonderful. Unlike the extremely obese women one sees in America nowadays, Audrey was careful with her diet and stayed thin until the end. The ghastly gossip columnist who has written the biography, one Diana May- chick, claims she suffered from bulimia which stemmed from her memories of the starving during the war. What bull. For good measure, she writes that Audrey's father was a Nazi. Bulimia, guilt, Nazis, a few film star lovers and, presto, another best-seller. The only trouble is none of it is true. Audrey loved William Holden like crazy, but which woman wouldn't have? (Best looking man in Hollywood, a great athlete and an even greater drinker.) She was a happy woman with many, many friends and lived a full and useful life. This Maychick woman should be ashamed of herself.
And speaking of shame, if what I read is true, I hope a stray cruise missile hits the Oxford Union the night O.J. Simpson is speaking there. I may be tough on modern American culture and manners, but not even the greediest of Hollywood Shylocks has tried to get Simpson to go on a pro- gramme. Leave it to a British television show to hit rock bottom. It makes Britain worse than Hollywood and Las Vegas com- bined. If it's true that the grotesque Max Clifford has arranged the junket, he should be tarred and feathered. Claridges should be boycotted, as should the TV programme in which Simpson will appear. Advertisers still have time to do this. In fact, the same should apply to the Oxford Union. Michael Howard should step in and ban the bum. If he does, I'll name a ship after his wife.
'I wonder if it'll eat beef '
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