High life
The biter bit
Taki
s if we didn't have enough to worry about already — what with muggings on the rise, welfare cheats, Jesse Jackson, Ed Koch, the Gutfreunds, falling bridges and the crack culture — Maxwell mania has hit the Big Bagel of late.
Three major publications have recently run profiles of the porcine Czech, but thank God only the Big Bagel Times presented him as the hero he sure ain't. (They would, wouldn't they?) Both Man-
hattan Inc. and Spy magazine showed the painted one in his true colours, and with libel laws being what they are over this side of the ocean, they were never truer.
Speaking of libel and Maxwell, the fat one sure knows how to hand it out Taki- like, but turns into a Karim Khan hypocrite when it's his turn to take it. Last week, while in London for the twice-yearly karate seminar I am now reduced to attending, I came upon Captain Bob's latest example of selectivity.
It seems the Daily Mirror went out of its way not only to libel but to ruin the career of my friend Harry Phibbs, by printing a story about him that, for lack of a better example, Arafat wouldn't print about Sha- mir. Phibbs is a controversial young man of 22, a staunch Conservative, and a man with political ambitions the size of Mount Everest. He does not, however, have any family money, and ekes out a living by writing freelance political articles. Being an expert on libel pay-outs, I would advise my friend to accept nothing less than six figures, give or take a figure.
It is ironic that someone like the poor little Greek boy would be taking the side of a plaintiff, but as the oracle of Delphi once said, he who libels the poor shall become relatively poorer. And speaking of oracles, it is also ironic that I should be taking the side of a kiss-and-tell memoir, but as Don Regan very correctly pointed out, there were hardly any kisses for him from Nancy Reagan. Regan is now being called a rich wimp who beats up women. Hell hath no fury like a real man scorned, cry the wits of Washington. And for good measure the historically-minded ones add that a politi- cally engaged first lady is not exactly new in White House history. Be that as it may, say I. Again, what it all comes down to is that if one is going to dish it out Maxwell- like, one should be ready to take it. In my humble opinion Nancy Reagan hides be- hind her sex while meddling, so, for better or for worse, she has to take the flak.
My friend William F. Buckley, as fair a man as one can hope to find in this universe, sees Regan's book as emanating from a psychological compulsion, one that does the President a great disservice. Although the only thing I have ever disagreed about with Bill Buckley is his view on celibacy, I am not so sure that he's not being overly Christian, if that is still possible in this day and age. For Don Regan to have turned the other cheek is commensurate to Maxwell instructing his lawyers to compensate the publishers and authors he has hounded. Ditto the Aga Khan. Tough rich people do not turn the other cheek, and Regan is both.
Which brings me to a tough and ex- tremely rich lady, one who lives with an almost as rich and just as tough man: Mrs Vivian Duffield, née Clore, and Mr Jocelyn Stevens. The last time I saw them was in Gstaad, where I lunched with them and then had a mini-heart attack skiing off-piste in their company. Looking back I'm glad I had paid for the bill at the Eagle Club. Why? Easy. One week later all hell broke loose over a piece of cheese gruyere, if my informants are right. For some strange reason, Vivian, known for her generosity where charities are con- cerned, saw red when she discovered that her house-guests of long standing were lunching on her terrace on cheese and tomatoes. Words were exchanged and Nicky Villiers and Inez Franck left the Clore chalet in a huff. Now the feud has spread to Mustique, where the group was supposed to regroup later this month. Even Princess Margaret is now involved. I will not keep you posted about the out- come, but I do thank my lucky stars that I paid for lunch that day.
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