High life
Three men in a boat
Taki
ow, what a weekend! Let us start with the White House correspondents din- ner at the Washington Hilton ballroom for 2,000 schmucks. That was the first invita- tion I turned down. The sight of Bill Clin- ton is bad enough on TV; in the flesh, being shmoozed by the hacks and Washing- ton 'insiders', it's unbearable. Fifteen years or so ago, the correspondents dinner was fun. Once I remember being seated next to Fawn Hall on a front table, while the then sainted one, Charles Moore, sat with the mother of my children somewhere near the kitchen. Another time there was the beau- tiful Penelope Ann Miller, P.J. O'Rourke and Chris Buckley, three of the best, mak- ing up for the horrors of Clinton-Gore.
Oh well, I read I didn't miss much, except for Patty Hearst, Al D'Amato, Bo Derek and Kevin Spacey. Urgh! Mind you, I had something up my sleeve all along, but that also came up short. 'Teddy Forstmann invites you to dinner Saturday, 29 April ... Lots of old friends, spectacular enter- tainment, a great time, Don't miss it!' read my invite. The place, Beverly Hills, as in Hollywood. The means of getting there, via Gulfstream 5, flying 20,000 feet above the peasants on commercial airlines, and almost twice as fast. Alas, although billeted at the Beverly Hills hotel, where once upon a time — 1957 to be exact — I lost a fight (figuratively) for the hand of Joan Collins to Nicky Hilton, it was not to be. Avvocato Agnelli and boxing got in the way.
Teddy Forstmann was celebrating his 60th birthday and, like a modern tycoon that he certainly is, flew a few of his bud- dies out west on a couple of G-5s. One took off from London straight to El Lay, the other from the Bagel carrying luminar- ies like Henry Kissinger and immediate members of Teddy's family. The reason I'm kicking myself is rather easy to guess. There were more beautiful girls at Teddy's party than there are name droppers and Clinton supporters in Hollywood, yet I chose to remain in the Bagel in order to watch two black behemoths act like clumsy amateurs for almost five minutes, if that.
When Gianni Agnelli, fresh from his General Motors coup, rang from Turin and proposed a sail around Manhattan in the morning, and the Lennox Lewis-Michael Grant heavyweight fight that evening, I did a Mandelson and forgot all about beautiful girls. The word sail is an understatement, needless to say. Sailing on the Stealth is not like sailing, say, on an America's Cup boat. It's much, much faster. The Stealth is the fastest boat in the world, with even its sails made out of titanium, and its sleek, all- black form is a sight to behold. Last year, while challenging Robert Miller's Mary- Cha's trans-Atlantic record, Stealth broke her rudder while six hours ahead. Next week she will try again.
So off we went, three old friends — and a terrific crew of 15 — for one of the most pleasant days I've had in a lifetime of pleasant days. Gianni, Roffredo Gaetani (the only pro boxer with the title of count, and a real one at that) and the poor little Greek boy watched as we slipped docklines from bollards and shoved off. In a matter of seconds the jibs snapped taut, the main- sail was hoisted, and we were flying past the Statue of Liberty, under the George Washington bridge and up the Hudson. The sea was dead calm, the wind moderate, and we were doing 16 knots. If I am being Tou'd tell me if there was anyone else wouldn't you, Mandy?' deficient in the skills of description, but (as always) prolific in assertion and opinion, it is perhaps because English is not my moth- er tongue; more likely it's because I cannot for the life of me truly convey the feeling of flying silently through Neptune's kingdom.
But as far as the fight was concerned, we shoulda stayed in bed. Gianni was jet- lagged but bravely made his way — bad leg and all — among the throng of mostly drunken louts to take our ringside seats. Five minutes later we were on our way back. (Mind you, it was a sloppy win, but a great upper cut.) We dropped Tavvocato' off and headed for Elaine's, where a jam session of old-fashioned jazz was in progress. For a while I thought I was young again, and back on 52nd Street listening to the divine Sidney Bechet, but then Roffre- do brought me back to earth when he warned me not to say anything rude to some awful rappers who came and plonked themselves next to me.
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