No soppiness, please
Taki
AlMarshal Blucher spluttered to the ron Duke at the conclusion of the Battle of Waterloo, 'Quelle affaire!' I am talking about my three wonderful weeks in England. The warnings about one's health
should not be on cigarette boxes but in London airports, hotels and restaurants during the months of June and July, that is. Having slowed down on the booze, I was reluctant to return to the capital during the high season in case had habits came back. Well, even without lotsa booze, London, I have to admit, is the place to be come summer. The Bagel is fun but people are either too stiff or too downmarket. They either yearn for respectability and act in a manner they think upper-crust Brits do, or spill the beans about their innermost thoughts and secrets a la Hollywood touchy-feelies (the ultimate accolade of our times, a Bill Clinton bearhug).
No such emotional self-indulgences for the poor little Greek boy upon the prodigal's return. 'Greek boy, you're back ... 'is as good as it got. This is the way it should be. Unlike modern footballers — the simplest of moves produces scenes straight out of a Roman orgy, bodies piled on bodies and so on — my buddies do not suffer from Clintonitis. Even at Ned Durham's and Zac Goldsmith's bashes — when things got slightly out of hand — there was no soppiness when meeting up with old friends.
And speaking of bashes, the best Zulu music I've heard in a long time was Harry Worcester's band, the Planet Potato, performing at Lambton Castle and driving the young wild. Although hardly an expert — I loathe any music after 1955 and never listen to it — I was truly impressed. Harry's musical style, as far as I could tell, is lyrical rock, not just head-banging. Bill Lovelady at lead guitar (he's a classical guitarist) and Colonel Dickens backing up Bill make for very good sounds. The colonel (a real one) also makes sense. `I find it very hard to play with all those girls screaming up front' was the only thing he said throughout the evening. Harry Worcester, a very good and old friend of mine, writes his own songs and they sounded so good it could have been the Rolling Stones or the Beatles, except that the Marquess of Worcester is much better-looking than those dyed and dried-up old prunes. But don't take my word for it. Sign up the band and see if I've steered you wrong.
And speaking of Harry, his annual cricket match vs Badminton village takes place this weekend. Three years ago I arrived at the match from a lunch (dare I say it? It's terrific place-dropping, but what the hell, at Highgrove) totally drunk. I missed the last ball of the match coming straight at me at great speed, which meant defeat. Last year I performed a few heroics on the field but made a fool of myself while batting because, instead of reading up on the rules, I had stayed up reading Paul Johnson's Napoleon. I am told the reason I've been invited back is purely my ability to sledge. ('Believe you me, the best I've ever had in a brothel was your sister. ... and your kid brother wasn't bad either ... ') Just kidding. It's a strange
thing, I've played sports all my life and have competed at an international level in at least three of them, and now, towards the end. I find myself travelling to England to play cricket. (The first time I made contact with the ball and someone yelled run, I dropped the bat and ran a la baseball; that was at Tim Hanbury's two years ago.) Actually. I don't mind making a fool of myself on the field by trying too hard. Not as long as there are beautiful girls like Rose Hanbury, Zita Neville and Laura Cathcart watching. That's what I love about cricket. Beautiful young women come out to watch. That's the reason I played polo long ago, the women, but they were more interested in the rnoolah than the sport. And as far as tennis and karate are concerned, Fuggetaboutit. At least when I was competing.
This is the good news. The bad is that the mother of my children, riding her magnificent Rosenstoltz, a six-year-old Hanoverian gelding, was crushed by him when some Swiss shit spooked him. She broke her vertebra but the flak jacket she had on saved her. Worse, I didn't realise how bad the injury was, so I stayed in London partying. (Princesses tend not to use hyperbole.) Next week I will be back in the fold behaving myself. In the meantime, tighten your seatbelts.
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