Low life
Big fish
Jeffrey Bernard
y spent last weekend at Taki's palatial I Oxfordshire residence and last night I had cocktails and dinner with lan Botham in the Caprice and yet they insist on calling this /ow life. I don't get it. Mind you I did have to telephone Taki in Gstaad and speak to him very seriously about a couple of things after my stay. For one thing the swimming pool needs a good scrubbing out and for another there are only two bottles of vodka left in the wine cellar although the claret seems to be withstanding some wick- ed assaults. Oh yes, the formal pond in the garden a mere oblong of about 100 yards by 20 yards and inhabited by goldfish the size of whales — doesn't own up to a single water-lily, surely the prettiest thing in water bar a bubble. Otherwise I have no com- plaints.
I took my two teenage nieces down to Bruern Abbey with me to give them a taste of the high life and they took to it like ducks to water. Within minutes of arriving there I beheld Emma gazing at a tapestry in the gallery, a glass of something quite poisonous in one hand, and saying, 'It's rather odd really, I feel so at home here.' Quite. There's hope for the girl. yet. Her sister, Katie, was given the key to the wine cellar by the housekeeper and she showed rrie around asking me questions about wine, a subject I know little of, yet at the end of my lecture she was impertinent enough to ask, 'Why don't you move your bed into here?'
Anyway, the housekeeper took the weekend off and I played chef for two days and we ate like pigs. There's something really good about sitting in front of a huge log fire, bloated with good grub, a thick crystal tumbler in one hand, pulchritude on either and knowing that bailiffs are scouring London for you 60 miles away. Alternatively, it's rather depressing to stand on a croquet lawn in a thunderstorm and reflect on the sadness of bOth the Observer and the great Benny Green taking leave of their senses (see this week's Private Eye). Which reminds me, I have instructed my solicitors to write to the editor of Private Eye, Mr Ingrams, over the matter of calling me a snooper. 'Alcoholic', 'Soho layabout' I don't mind. gut 'sponger' isn't on. I have on occasion been forced, albeit reluctantly, to receive a helping hand and medicinal drink and 1 may be likened to a sponge but I am not a sponger.
Anyway, back in London on Monday, I was taken by David Litchfield of Ritz newspaper to meet the great Mr Botham of Somerset, whom God preserve. Not quite as tall as I expected, he is nevertheless built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Further- more, unlike most people I've admired from a distance, he is not a disappointment to meet — quite delightful. We only touched on the subject of cricket and I was a little surprised that when 1 mentioned my dread of facing fast bowling he said, 'We're all frightened of it.' In the light of recent South African affairs it seemed significant that he should have spoken with such affec- tion of Viv Richards but that was just about all we did say of cricket and he said what a wonderful change it was to come up to Lon- don and have a conversation instead of be- ing asked a load of daft questions about his game.
All the same it's. sad to think that when we have lunch on his next trip to town I shall have to chastise him. Mr Litchfield in- forms me that.after I'd staggered out of the Caprice — a well named restaurant — to go home, Botham said, 'A nice bloke that Jeff. I'd like to meet him when he knoWs what he's talking about.' Nearly as imperti- nent as P.Eye and if I were as important as B. Green then Sue, Grabbit & Runne would be kept pretty busy. A funny thing though about Botham. Being able to turn down a quarter of a million quid to play in Africa makes me envy his optimism about his future much more than his money. As things stand — and I can barely stand — I think I could be bought for fractionally less than £250,000.
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