High life
The princess and the Greek
Taki
Christmas is a lousy time for dictators. Last year Ceausescu got his comeuppance, following in the footsteps of the rest of the motley crew of socialist tyrants. Fulgencio Batista fled Havana on New Year's Day 1959, but I'm afraid the bearded butcher who took his place will not oblige this Christmas. Which leads me to believe there must be something very wrong with Cubans. Here we have even Albanians demanding freedom, and the hot-blooded Cubans are taking it lying down.
In the Big Olive, the great crook Andreas Papandreou is facing a prosecu- tor's summons two days after Christmas, a fact that has already given me the best Christmas present in many a year. If he ever goes to jail, I will give another ball, this one in white tie and tiaras. Ali Baban- dreou had threatened Time magazine with a writ for libel (the mag had said he had looted Greece) but has somehow forgotten to follow it up. My only complaint is with my friend Costa Mitsotakis, the Prime Minister. Papandreou refused to appear before the prosecutor and sent a letter instead. The prosecutor had the right to send the fuzz over but didn't. Then the premier issued a statement as follows: `There is no Greek who would have liked to see Mr Papandreou dragged forcefully before the prosecutor.'
Well, I beg to differ. There are millions of Greeks who would like to see him dragged through the courts, if only to prove to this rather lawless country that no one is above the law. But never mind. This is the time of year to think good thoughts about one's fellow man, as well as the time to count one's blessings. Six years ago just about now I was in Pentonville, spending my bleakest Christmas since 1944.
Now it seems very long ago. The last five birthdays of our Lord Jesus have been particularly happy ones. My Christmas Eve party has had a lot to do with it. Lots of pretty girls, lots of small children waiting to open their presents, lots and lots of wine it's a hell of a combination.
And speaking of parties, my friend Oliver Gilmour rang me in the Olive and told me that he, Harry Worcester and yours truly were the only three people he knew not to have been invited to the Queen's bash last week. I must say I was surprised. About Harry and Oliver, that is. The Queen hadn't asked me because I hadn't asked her to my party, despite the fact that I had stayed with her in the winter of 1984-85. Oliver is probably persona non grata because of his preference for classical music, but for the life of me I cannot think why Harry was not among the first to be asked.
It was at Harry's wedding ball that I met Princess Diana. I was standing on the edge of the dance floor trying to figure out how all the people on it stayed upright despite it moving so violently. That is when Nicky Haslam decided it was time for some social climbing for the poor little Greek boy and presented me to Princess Di. HRH: 'How do you do?' Taki: hhrr, ha, harve you ever met a Greek before?' No answer. I was looking down while trying to get the words out, and of course Nicky had grab- bed Di and fled in rather a hurry. Oh well, maybe next year.
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