High life
Derby
winner
Taki
Twenty years ago this month I was in Hue, then South Vietnam, when 40 North Vietnamese divisions crossed the DMZ and took Quang Tri. Nothing stood between the old imperial capital and the advancing commie hordes but a few miles, but then the pinkoes got caught in a mas- sive B-52 strike out in the open and Hue enjoyed three more years of freedom.
I was in Fireplace Birmingham, Phu Bai, a short chopper ride from Hue, when the commander of the base, a Colonel Mao, told me somebody back in Saigon was very anxious to speak to me. I got seriously wor- ried. Could something have happened to my parents, or perhaps Alexandra, the cute little Austrian I had put the moves on just before I left? I grabbed a Chinook ride down to Saigon and to MACVE, the Yan- kee headquarters that had asked for me in the first place.
It was there that a Major Larry Means gave me the bad news. Charles Benson, England's greatest gambler and an old friend of mine, a man whose lifestyle has always been in direct opposition to his bank balance, had been wiped out at Epsom and needed a loan. I began to rave and rant. I had risked my neck getting out of besieged Birmingham for this? I swore if I lived I'd never speak to him again. But I did telex something he could give the book- ies in order to keep his knees in one piece.
Twenty years later I find myself once again on a helicopter — this time with the leviathan Benson next to me — but of course there are no little yellow men in black pyjamas shooting at us from below. In fact we are on one of Lord White's choppers as his guests on our way to the Derby, the event that Benson swears will make me seriously rich — if only I follow his advice.
The years have been kind to Benson. He has no grey hair, no wrinkles, a terrific tan and more debts than Brazil. More impor- tant, however, is his girlfriend. She is American and rich, Benson having finally seen the light and done a Rubirosa. Which proves there is life after girth, according to Nigel Dempster.
The moolah, needless to say, comes from the divorced husband, as is the great Amer- ican tradition, but soon, we all hope, there will be a massive transfer of funds from the Big Bagel into Benson's eager and pudgy hands. The mother of the hubby (Rodney Ward, head of the banking division of War- burg's) recently rang her son and warned him that his ex's new boyfriend didn't look very promising. It must have been the greatest understatement since the Titanic's captain tried to calm his passengers by explaining the engines had stopped in order to take on some ice.
Two weeks ago the Wards, who are on excellent terms despite Benson, visited Euro-Disney, the project in which Ward had invested £350 million of Warburg lolly. They were met by the head of Euro-Disney who grovellingly apologised and said that the presidential suite was unavailable because it had been requisitioned by Fer- gie. Ward was relieved when the name Fer- gie came up. He later told his ex that Benson was not as expensive to keep as Fergie, and next week I will tell you if he was right or not.
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