High life
Dawn raids
Taki
`D inners, soirees, erratic mil- lionaires, music, promenades, heiresses. And how!' This is the way Hart Crane described his life in the Paris of the 1920s, and he could have been talking about the Pentonville pen-man in London last week. Mrs Jonathan Aitken got me off on the right foot with her drinks party in that lovely drawing-room of hers at Lord North Street, followed by Shaun Plunket's and Imran Khan's quickies for new wife and new cricket magazine respectively. I stayed sober throughout all three, which must be a very bad sign, or so people tell me. But then came the dear old Spectator's annual and matters improved rather dramatically. Drinkwise, that is. But I was in good company for once. (Yes, the sainted one was more sloshed than the jailbird.) The bad news was that Annabel's threw us out while it was still dark, which was a real pity. Going home under moonlight is like playing poker for cigarettes — just a wee bit boring.
The good news, however, is that The Spectator is rapidly becoming a mecca for nubile and beautiful girls. Especially this year. I counted at least five of them, which is a record for a hack party. And I counted them while I was still sober. I was only sorry to have missed Jeff Bernard, who I am told was busy sharpening up his cricket skills, but Annabel's was never his scene. Next week I plan to take him to Tramps, where he'll be much more at home.
Two days later, during the early hours, I was driven through north London past Pentonville by Lady Worcester, on the way to Norfolk, a county I had heard a lot about but never had the pleasure of passing out in. The reason Tracy Worcester was doing the driving was because her husband had driven in excess of 100 mph and had been caught by the fuzz. Like all great men, Harry Worcester slept while the wife drove, but it was never boring. The reason for this is that Tracy is a feminist and an environmentalist, and I am neither. We only stopped once, just before Sandring- ham, after she had scratched my face and I had tugged at her hair.
Needless to say, everything was hunky- dory by the time we arrived chez Henry Bellingham MP, our host for the weekend. And what a kind and generous host he was too. The trouble was, he has two half-sisters who are quite young, and well, you can guess the rest. As always I made a fool of myself, but that is the price one pays for heterosexuality nowadays.
The reason we went trekking northeast was — what else? — a ball, given by one of my oldest English friends, and one the Sunday Times missed including in their list of Britain's top ten richest. I cannot identify him because he gave me a Ferrari not to, but I will give you a hint. He is not John Bristol, the only other man I know who has done time and lives in Norfolk.
As always when civilised people give a party, there was no Zulu music, and because there wasn't any I got into a romantic mood and a bit tipsy. The place was full of old friends, two of them in particular who rejected me long ago. I was the last one to leave at the request of my host. But the sun was out this time, at least they told me it was when they put me to bed.
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