High life

Winners

Taki

or once I was rather sad to see the year go the way of Lebanon. 1983 wasn't such a bad year when I look back. It had a roller coaster kind of effect on me, with in- tense highs and lows, and now that I'm once again in that state of euphoria once described by Oscar Wilde as justifying along with gluttony — just about everything, I feel eager and ready to award the 1983 High Life prizes. In order to be fair to all high-lifers I waited until midnight on 31 December before closing the list. The 1983 honours, incidentally, will be given out in the form of gold chalices at White's Club on 22 January 1984. go the way of Lebanon. 1983 wasn't such a bad year when I look back. It had a roller coaster kind of effect on me, with in- tense highs and lows, and now that I'm once again in that state of euphoria once described by Oscar Wilde as justifying along with gluttony — just about everything, I feel eager and ready to award the 1983 High Life prizes. In order to be fair to all high-lifers I waited until midnight on 31 December before closing the list. The 1983 honours, incidentally, will be given out in the form of gold chalices at White's Club on 22 January 1984.

The John De Lorean Prize was fought over by many but is finally awarded to John Jer- myn because of a technicality. He is, never- theless, a proud and deserving winner.

The Ring around the Collar Award goes to my old friend William Lewisham, or Vis- count Lewisham as people who write for the Taller would call him. William wasn't actually trying to win the prize, but he had a great advantage in the fact that he suffers from hydrophobia, a rare but rather in- nocuous affliction, and not to be compared with what his step-sister suffers from, the dreaded bibliophobia.

The Rip Van Winkle Honour was the easiest to decide on. Anthony Haden- Guest, the most dreaded man on both sides of the Atlantic by people who have children of the female persuasion, won that one hands down. Anthony now passes out before the dinner is served, and in 1983 he attended almost 500 shindigs that he slept through.

The Annapurna Award was an extremely difficult one to resolve, as 1983 was a ban- ner year for parties and social climbing. It nevertheless goes to Sebastian Taylor for wishing to be invited to a Greek dance and getting turned down despite the efforts of Lord Longford to include him.

The Everest Award, needless to say, goes to the Greek who refused to have Sebastian, an amusing chap to have around, but who included the people from whom he rented the house to give his dinner dance in.

The Taki Literary Prize was the next easiest to decide on after the Haden-Guest one. It goes to Gaby Van Zuylen — or Baroness Van Zuylen if one prefers dubious Dutch titles — for giving an interview to the New York Times and comparing Yves St Laurent, the Parisian dress designer, to Leo Tolstoy. Congratulations, Van Zuylen. The next thing we will probably hear is someone comparing Halston to Hemingway. After all, both of them have been known to be cruel to women.

The Paedophilia Trophy cannot be won by anyone working for or contributing to the Spectator, therefore it goes, with a little latitude, to Princess Caroline of Monaco, for taking that nice young innocent man from his father's factory and getting him mixed up with people in the jet-set. (I beg Roman Polanski's forgiveness, but he can- not win the award every year.) The Most Conspicuous Dropout from the Jane Fonda Course Award goes to Christina Onassis. The poor little rich girl had many rivals but when I saw her stan- ding on a corner by herself waiting for her limo and a policeman told her to break it up, I became convinced that she deserved the prize.

The Least Spontaneous Pie-Throw of the Year goes, needless to say, to those people who threw one at Prince Charles's face. And The Most Expected Pie-Throw Award goes to the husband of the bibliophobe.

The Most Welcome Royal Relation Since Kaiser Wilhelm Honour goes to Princess Michael of Kent. Who else. While cruising on the Heinz of 57 Varieties yacht last year off the coast of Florida, the Austrian lady remonstrated with her host for not flying the right ensign while royalty was on board. Noblesse obliges me to say nothing more. Nevertheless it is a sad day.

The Diogenes Award for Honesty goes to the son of Princess Margaret and Anthony Armstrong-Jones for saying what he said about having dinner with a certain Austrian lady.

The Tip O'Neill Award for Sensitivity goes to Oliver Gilmour, and will be personally handed to him by Lady Liza Campbell, a lady if there ever was one.

The Opening of an Envelope Award goes to Koo Stark, who went to more parties than Sebastian Taylor crashed, and who I suspect will be around long enough to make us forget even Vivian Ventura.

The II faut Culliver le Jardin de sa Femme Award (if you don't get it look up the last sentence of Voltaire's Candide) goes to Randall Crawley.

Finally, The Baby William Lachrymose Prize goes to D. Harold Evans for his book about the bad Rupert Murdoch. Thank God Evans chose to become a hack and not a lover. Can you imagine what he could have done with his kiss-and-tell — or perhaps not-kiss-but-nevertheless-tell style? He could have been another Basualdo. (There is a supplementary prize that goes with the William Lachrymose one, and that is awarded to Anthony Lewis for writing a whole column telling us how bad — according to D. Evans — Murdoch is.)