High life
Telling tales
Taki
Thank God for anorexia, Channel 4, and speculation — by hacks who should know better — about whether the butcher of Budapest has lost his taste for human flesh. Otherwise Fleet Street bloodhounds would already be on the trail of one of this century's greatest scoops. Yes, dear readers, this is my first world ex- clusive. It seems that Charles Benson, the Daily Express's chief turf writer and friend of the extremely rich and powerful, is about to be exchanged — given asylum, really — for the disgraced Andrei Kirilenko's son. Benson is going to Moscow and Kirilenko Jr is going to the Express. The latter will write about the innermost secrets of the Kremlin, while the former will write about the innermost secrets of the capitalist world. As usual, however, the Soviets are getting the long end of the stick. Kirilenko will simply tell us some things that we all know; that obedience and the willingness to carry out the most inhuman of orders was why his father's chief rival ascended the Soviet throne; that Andropov is extremely rigid ideologically and as liberal as the mili- tant wing of the Labour Party; and that he was the man who invented the practice of sending everyone — not just famous dissidents — to psychiatric asylums. What Benson will tell them is another story. Despite the Soviets having more agents over here than there are Italians in the United States, there are some things that their spies cannot figure out. Like why one of the richest men on earth, the Aga Khan, does not pay many taxes but receives funds in- stead. Or how a man like Mick Jagger can make more money by standing up and ripp- ing his clothes off than the wholes So
empire makes through its grain sales in ten years. Or why a girl like Jerry Hall, who by Soviet standards would be incapable of making a living in a factory, can command bigger prices than a cruise missile. All these things might seem superfluous but believe me they are not. The Russians have stolen everything from us except for the secret of how to make money without talent or toil. Benson, the world's expert, is about to tell them. Why is Benson defec- ting? Easy. Like Philby he prefers to live out his days in a country dacha than be kneecapped by some of Mick Jagger's roadies — who have been out looking for him ever since the infamous lunch that he (Benson) gave some time last month.
Now, a typical Benson lunch, as readers of 'High life' have been told ad nauseam, is a lunch where the guest of honour picks up the tab. In exchange Benson always invites interesting people for his guest of honour to meet. It was at such a lunch that Robert Sangster met Mick, the rubber-faced clown, and Jerry, the seven-foot-tall model whose physical attributes make her the ideal per- son to clean giraffes' ears. If you have been reading the gutter press you know the rest.
The pity of it is that my friend Benson is not an ambitious man. In fact he is quite humble. His only ambition has been to be the ringmaster of a three-ring circus. This three-ring circus involves the royals, through his wife Carolyn, whose father the colonel is the Queen's dancing partner; the racing world, which includes the Aga and Sangster; and the pop star world, a world in which he is on intimate terms with types like Mick Jagger and Vitas (happy dust) Gerulaitis.
As I said before, Benson is not am- bitious. He is perfectly content to spend weekends at Windsor, weekdays at various race courses, and nights with Mick and Vitas at Tramp's. He also liked being flown out on private planes whenever the neon nights made his otherwise pink countenance turn the colour of the backbone of Greek politicians. But, suddenly, his world col- lapsed. While making small talk during one of his countless lunches for Sangster he mentioned to Jerry the fact that Sangster was ten times as rich, as, say, Mick. Benson didn't mean it, it simply slipped out. Later on, another indiscretion slipped out. This time to his guest of honour. It had something to do with roly-poly men becom- ing sexual symbols when seen with squaw of pop star. Soon afterwards, Jagger, decided to dip into his pocket — an unheard of phenomenon — and offer a reward for Benson's kneecaps. Sangster's wife has hired some Australian waterfront toughs to bring her his liver, however enlarged. Jerry and Sangster have not as yet hired anyone because they are too confused as to who tried to do what to whom. But their time will come. And they, too, will turn against him.
So my old friend Charles took the only honourable course of action. He decided to hide. And what better place to do so than Moscow. The last time I spoke to him he was bragging about rivers of vodka and mountains of caviar. 'Screw the Aga,' he said. 'He was a cheapskate from the word go. I'll miss you, Tovarich.' And then he was gone.
Previous page
