High life
Time to grow up
Taki
Handel's Water Music was composed for a grand ceremonial occasion, yet it would have suited me perfectly last Satur- day night in the Big Bagel at Mortimer's, to be precise. Elizabeth Hurley was my guest of honour — sans Hugh Grant — with the Englishman most likely to be crucified by Hollywood's Jewish community, William Cash, as her escort. Not to be undone, Columbia's richest scion, Julio Santo Domingo, came with an American girl for whom Giovanni Bolpi once tried to kill himself for, by throwing himself out of the top floor of his Venetian palazzo, only to be immediately rescued 'by his mother's gondqliere. Adding to the cosmopolitan atmosphere was China's emperor — still uncrowned — David Tang, together with Lady Thatcher's wordsmith in exile, John O'Sullivan. Oh yes, I almost forgot. There were also two of the most beautiful girls I've seen in a long time, called Amanda and Ann-Sophie.
Things were going swimmingly until Eliz- abeth tried to illustrate a point and dropped a whole bucket of water on my crotch. She apologised profusely but she needn't have done. I found her charming and delightful, and what's a bucket of ice water one one's you know what when they're already on fire. What made me laugh was what she told me about Hugh Grant. About one year ago, when he really hit it big, I wrote in these here pages that I had met him as a teenager, and due to his extraordinary look, I took him for a poofter. When Hugh read it his reaction was, according to Miss Hurley, 'That's a bit rich coming from a Greek'. Now that's what I call a sense of humour.
What I didn't find so funny was the arrival of a couple who are purported to be recovering from serious drug use. The man I had never heard of, I was told he wrote a book about drugs among the upper classes. He looked awfully common to me. The woman's claim tp fame was to have been roughed up by William Kennedy Smith after taking his stuff and not putting out.
What I do know that if they're off the bad stuff, they should go back on it. although I hadn't noticed them, apparently they brooded for a while and then threw a glass of orange on me. And ran out the door. It could have been worse. They could have preached to us the evils of drink. I didn't mind as I had already been baptised by Liz. Such are the joys of running into English free-loaders abroad.
But they didn't manage to spoil the evening. Which finished in the Bowery Bar, and when I say finished, I mean it. Young William Cash, who had been at his most elo- quent and charming all evening, got sick all over some Greenwich Village low-lifers who were trying to pick up our models. It was the funniest scene since the very same William did exactly the same thing to Jay McIner- ney's prized carpet back home in Tennessee couple of years ago. It was the perfect end- ing to an almost perfect evening.
And now for even better news: A loyal Spectator reader, Mrs D H B Neal, has sent me a clipping of a Portuguese newspaper which reports a scandal concerning Thierry Roussel, the man who ripped of 58 million big ones from the tragic Christina Onassis. Roussel, it seems, took the Portuguese state for as good a ride as he did Christina, guar- anteeing thousands of jobs while creating a farming project. Brussels, too, was taken in. (Your taxes, dear reader.) Both his compa- nies are now being declared bankrupt, the moolah is gone, and the land adjacent to the Atlantic Ocean, which once produced fruit and flowers, is now inundated with insecti- cides and other toxic products. The papers are screaming foul, pointing out how EU subsidies can be squandered. So what else is new? If Roussel could take the Onassis fami- ly for a ride, what's so hard about fooling the European Commission?
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