High life
Fall of the usher
Taki
Istill haven't figured out whether the choice of the date for the great party Sir James Goldsmith gave on election night was fortuitous or not. What I do know for sure is that Jimmy's choice of Cliveden for the dance certainly was not. The house was built by a Duke of Buckingham, I believe — a name that is not synonymous with political moderation in English history. What is also certain is that the quality and amount of food and drink offered by Sir James would not be considered moderate even by . . . Farouk, had the last Egyptian king and sybarite been around and lucky enough to be invited. There were more magnums of pink champagne than there are pinkoes in the BBC, and more orches- tras playing non-stop jazz and golden oldies than there were serious candidates to be elected Prime Minister that night.
The only surprise was the number of hacks that were present. The first man I encountered upon entering the panelled great hall was none other than Nigel Dempster, followed in quick succession by Peregrine Worsthorne, Paul Johnson, Frank Johnson, John O'Sullivan, John Gross, and Lord Weidenfeld, who may be known as a publisher by the great British and American public, but who I suspect must be a journalist at heart. (Incidentally, Lord W. and I kissed and made up, which proves that if an Austrian epicure is given enough good food, music, and female company, he can forget and forgive any- thing and anyone.) Ironically, the evening began on a sad note for me. I was seated between Bryan Ferry's wife Lucy and Cosima Fry, when the subject of age came up. Although married to one of the kindest men I know, Lucy must be the cruellest of women, because she pointed out that by the year 2000 she would just about be 40 years of age. It sounded simply dreadful, and it depressed me to such an extent I began drinking in the manner I've been accus- tomed to when dining with ex-Presidents of the good old US of A. Mind you, even if Lucy had not been cruel, I needed a drink that night almost as badly as Khomeini needs to shoot people every day. I had arrived from New York the night before and gone straight to Aspinall's for Lord Worcester's stag party. Although jet- lagged and tired, I did manage to give a speech that people present told me later was on a par with the best my ancestor Demosthenes ever gave, one that had 22 men open-mouthed and some even holding back tears. After that there was some successful gambling, followed by drinks at Annabel's, and then it was dawn and yet another night had slipped by without rest for the weary little Greek boy.
So, by the time I began circulating among the perambulating ghosts of Cliveden I was rather relaxed, and I reminisced with some political veterans of the early Sixties about the Cliveden swim- ming pool, the great gardens, even the fact that Sebastian Taylor had been invited for a change. There were celebrities galore, as well as tycoons and half of the aristocracy, but it was the amount of beautiful young girls present that made the greatest im- pression on me.
Needless to say, I was once again the last man to leave, and was driven home by a friend who took two hours to locate London, a mere 20 miles away. By then it was mid-day on Friday and it was time to start getting ready for the wedding of the year that was taking place the next day in 'I pleaded the Fifth Amendment.' Oxfordshire. Harry Worcester had very kindly asked me to be an usher, probably the worst decision he's ever bound to make in his life. I am not exactly an expert in things English in general, and English weddings in particular, so it would be an understatement of sorts if I said that I did not make a success of it. In fact, I was promptly told that I was useless and advised to sit down as soon as I had placed Bill Lovelady, the groom's fellow musician in the rock group The Business Connec- tion, in the seat which the mother of the bride should have occupied. Which may have been a good thing after all. Because I did stand up for the next 18 hours, while attending the best dance for people who like Zulu music (the kind that keeps men and women apart while dancing) that I ever have and probably ever will. Even the royals thought so, because when I looked around to see someone I could bore while others danced away, the only person I recognised was the heir to the throne and his brother. After we were hustled out around nine in the morning, we continued in a terrific mood back at the hotel most of us were staying in, but then I remembered there was a tennis match to be played the next day, something I will recount for you next week if the liver transplant I am having on Thursday 15 successful.
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