High life
Block-
Taki
This was the tenth year in a row that the party has taken place — well, with one interruption in 1984. Before that I cele- brated the birth of Jesus in the Palace Grill in Gstaad, until it was overrun by rich camel-drivers from the Gulf. That is when I moved it to Professor Johannes Goulan- dris's chalet, and eventually into mine. The last Christmas party I had in Gstaad was memorable. It was the 1979-80 winter, and I had Andrew and Randall Crawley staying. The snow conditions were excel- lent, but far more important was the price of gold. It had reached 800 smackers per ounce, making Jackie Onassis finally a seriously rich widow, but also turning Sebastian Taylor into a terribly embittered man. He had taken a profit at 500, I believe, and Andrew, Randall and I teased him unmercifully until the news came that my Greek broker had sold gold short.
The next year my little boy was born and I decided it was better to spend Christmas in the Big Bagel among the muggers than with the towelheads in Gstaad. There have been some rough moments, like when I tried to bring in some girls from downtown posing as friends of my daughter's, but in general the party has been peaceful. This year I actually had two of them. The night before the night before Christmas, Nor- man Mailer, his wife and Jay McInerney were among the literati, along with Sarah Giles, Reinaldo Herrera and others not well-read enough to mention. We finished up the evening with Norman showing me his favourite duelling method, which is the head-butt. He was very gentle with me at the start, and I only realised how hard we were knocking heads when the mother of my children begged us to stop.
The next day I had a hell of a headache, but it could have been from the drink. Mailer truly believes that writers have stronger heads than normal people, which alas has convinced me I'm awfully, awfully normal. But not to worry. On the next evening my luck changed. First of all the daughter of the mother of my children's best friend arrived unexpectedly, and she turned out to be a 22-year-old beauty. Anthony Haden-Guest and I competed for her favours, until Haden-Guest passed out, that is, and just as the field was clear, my nephew William Theodoracopulos arrived with one Holly Eaton, aged 19 and even prettier.
By then, however, I was doing a Haden- Guest, and Miss Eaton was convinced I was suffering from celebral palsy. I not only failed to get a single telephone num- ber but also made a total fool of myself for the first time. Well, perhaps for the second.
I am writing this before my New Year's Eve party, which already looks a success. The mother of my children has relented, and all NBFs are permitted to attend, apres diner, that is. The venue is Mortimer's, and the reason for this is that my NBFs tend to leave with things in their pockets they didn't have upon arrival. I have two bands, one South American, the other a jazz one. In order to be in shape for the blast, I'm off to Palm Beach for two days, to contem- plate the human condition among the coconuts and palm trees.
'We've got rhythm — who could ask for anything more?'
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