High life
In business
Taki
It seems like ages since I last flew into London. Once I had landed, however, it all turned painfully familiar. The long walk to Terminal Two; the 'How long will you be staying this time?' question by a suspi- cious immigration official; the accusatory glances by the Customs & Excise personnel as one goes through the green channel; finally, the inevitable wait for a taxi.
But as soon as I had crossed the portals of my twice-burgled (within a week) flat, it was obvious that nothing had changed back in merry old England. The hot news every- one was talking about was that Hugo Guin- ness had been asked to be a page at his Cousin Jasper's wedding on 4 May. The hot gossip was that Hugo had accepted with alacrity. The best part of my first day in London was spent discussing the pros and eons of Hugo's decision with the various fti3Ps, scenemakers, hoorays and baroque 'teaks of fashion who worship at the altar of Jasper and Hugo Guinness. Personally, am delighted that Hugo will be a page. He is very good looking, extremely funny, `Ind more co-ordinated than the average
page. The fact that he's nearing 30 is of no importance. What is important is that Hugo will be thrilled to wear his velvet outfit and patent leather shoes.
Speaking of the marriage, I am flying back on the 4th in order to see my old Friend Hugo and also to make sure that the bridegroom, who is Jonathan's son, will tie the knot and be put away for good. Jasper has been moving into my territory for years now, and it's only because we were both at Eton that I have swallowed my pride and
have said nothing. There's nothing like marriage to put a man — a competitor rather — hors de combat, and I am all for it — my friends getting married, that is.
The expression hors de combat is a good one. It is an accurate way of describing my
party-going all these years, but no longer.
The first big bash I attedded since arriving in London, the debut of the rock band the Business, found me to be anything but out
of it. In fact I noticed very few zombies traipsing across Hammersmith Palais's
combination of airport hangar and turn-of- the-century bordello interior. One thing I had remarked just before going down last year was the fact that parties were becom- ing frenetic affairs, as if a last-of-the-wine fete could forever stave off a hangover.
Now it is very different. And a hundred times better. So much so that not only do I remember what I did the night before, I can even pass judgment on the goings on. The Business is a band led by a talented pro, Bill Lovelady,and backed up by what the tabloids call bluebloods, and I shall call pop musicians who don't drop their aitch- es. Lady Teresa Manners, Lord Harry Worcester and Lord John Somerset were my three friends among them. Being Con- servatives they stuck to civilised music, if anything that was written after the second world war could be called civilised. The crowd loved it. There were more hoorays and sweet young things shaking with finger-popping glee than there are inmates who claim to be innocent in Pentonville. And it was all in a good cause, a children's charity.
How good were the Business? Well, not being a rock expert, I will nevertheless give it a try. To me they sounded better than the Rolling Stones, and if one presumes that the Rolling Stones have not been any good since 1969, the Business were far better. Anyway, the decibel noise was the same, and the Business were certainly much better looking than the macabre stoned ones. The Business possessed an ingredient that is as rare among the zom- bies that play today as, say, a Democrat is in the Kremlin. I am talking about a sense of humour. And, of course, sex. Watching Teresa Manners writhe on stage made one want to jump on it, the stage, that is, and the dare-devilry of Harry Worcester with- out the help of alcohol, was truly admir- able. Talent is irrelevant in today's rock world, and looks and charm unheard of. The Business certainly possess the last two. That should be enough to carry them through. Until the hunting season at least.
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