High life
Flaunting it
Taki
With England's fortunes on the upturn, the deprived British jet-set threw caution to the wind last week and emerged from the closet. Two new night club openings heralded the occasion with fanfare unheard of since Sir Charles Clore's Bar Mitzvah. And as if these latest additions to the sybaritic set were not enough there are at least three more openings before June. London today resembles Rio de Janeiro during carnival time, with nymph-like figures emerging from orifices wearing masks, plumes and make-up.
Not since the days of the Queen's coronation have there been such feverish goings on. As one charter member of the British jet-set, Roddy Llewellyn, remarked: 'We have been afflicted with something of a siege mentality for too long. At last we are out in the open. Hurray.' And indeed they are. In their thousands.
It was not so long ago — four years — that London was plunged into the dark, cold, three-day week, a Dickensian city in the throes of civil war. But four years of a Labour government have managed not only to turn things around but to endow the city with more nightclubs than New York, Paris and Rome put together. (By this I mean clubs that matter, where discerning and beautiful people can congregate.) The government's liberal views on human frailties have not only helped in bringing people out of their closet, they will — hopefully — also pay off during election time. As a senior government minister told me: 'We are committed to an open way of life for everyone as well as public spending. We encourage everyone to flaunt it. We managed to do something that Heath never would have dared to as it was too close to home. That is not the case with us but we nevertheless approve.'
There are now seven major night clubs in London and three more on the way. Regine,
the queen of Paris nights, is soon opening in the basement of Inn on the Park. Regine knows a good thing when she sees one. 'Before your closet set came out I preferred
Peoria in ze Illinois to London, Now, c'est merveilleux. bus ces *les. Formidable.' Not to be outdone, her old adversary, Jean Castel, is also opening a British version of Castel's in the Dorchester. Castel said: 'I have ze poofs in Paris and ze fat Regine has ze Arabs. Here in London we switch.'
But social observers were not sure if Castel was right. Maybe Regine outfoxed him as there are more jet-setters here than Arabs all of a sudden. Only time will tell. In the meantime Dial 9, Wedgie's, Le Prive, and the newly-opened Bennett's and Embassy are preparing for the crunch which will definitely come when Albion's version of Studio 54 deigns to enter the competition. Heated discussions are taking place as this is being written between a very rough character called Rocky Aoki, representing Studio 54 and a few heavies from the Rank Organisation. The Rock wants to hire the Victoria cinema for five years and turn it into a club. The heavies are torn bet ween the Scylla of Rocky's fury and the Charybdis of their greed. Well informed sources believe that Charybdis will win.
Both Bennett's and Embassy, the latest arrivals, based their strategy on attracting la creme de la creme of Britain's jet-set. This is accomplished through snob appeal. Certain hoi-polloi on the dole are asked to be on the board in return for one free drink. Some lesser lights, such as journalists or shipowners, are also given honorary (free) memberships. Then a slick invitation is printed and circulated to the slobs. The latter pay £75 or £100 for the privilege of rub bing shoulders with the former. This way. the investors — usually butchers, grocers or godfathers — get back their return before a single cork has popped.
The fight is not to get the suckers. It is between clubs and the hoi-polloi they can induce to be on the board. As England is doing very well there are thousands of nobs on the dole, thus more and more clubs are opening. The grandest opening was that of Bennett's last week. There were hundreds of freeloaders but also a few clients like Michael Pearson. The rentamob managed to get the club more publicity than Roddy or Alexander of Tunis.
The Duke of Windsor's old hangout, the Embassy, now refurbished to fit post-pop culture, also went the nob way but with an added touch. The Marlboro man. It advertised that the rugged masculine type was the man it would cater to. That was what the major dailies wanted to hear. The opening party was assigned the best and the brightest of Fleet Street. Needless to say, we were led by England's foremost academician, Nigel Dempster.
All thirty of us (including informers) were led like sheep up the stairs only to be betrayed by our Fuehrer. As we entered two tough, leathery he-men were kissing each other rather passionately. Dempster fled. So did we. Half of us went to Tramp and the rest to Annabel's. Both places were packed. Maybe the Conservatives have a chance after all.
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