High life
Party spirit
Taki
well, I guess Cyril Connolly's wasn't the only ambition to be jostled by idleness, love of luxury, and the pursuit of pleasure. Mine took such a battering last week that the prospect of writing even this short chronicle of wasted time has suddenly taken on Homeric-like proportions. What is worse, however, is the trouncing my brain cells have been subjected to by the merciless assault of Piper Heidsieck Brut. In fact I fear that the damage in that department must by now be irreparable. Mind you, I'm not complaining. Unlike some people I know, I never regret the good time I've wasted having good times. Which I certain- ly had last week. It began with a long liquid dinner while flying over the Atlantic with two friends, continued at the annual Spec- tator bash, and culminated — after a Karamazovian bender in Hampshire on Saturday — on late Sunday afternoon somewhere in Wiltshire.
Which reminds me. I am sending an apology and an offer for a substantial con- tribution to their favourite charity to Mr Jonathan Guinness and Mrs Paul Channon for the way I behaved at the ball on the oc- casion of their daughter's wedding last Saturday night. By my calculation I was there for 11 hours, swilling at least one glass of champagne every five minutes. As one bottle of bubbly holds approximately eight glasses, only good taste and the fear that someone under 21 reads this and tries to emulate me, prevent me from publishing the final figures. but the more mathematical- ly minded among you will have a rough idea what I cost Mr Guinness and Mrs Channon — who, incidentally, were far too generous for the good of everyone's livers, and who gave the best party I've been to in a hell of a long while.
While flying back last week I tried to remember some of the details of the better parties I've been to lately and realised that my mind was as blank as that of a punk rocker. And no wonder. Whenever I look forward to a party I begin to celebrate ear- ly, usually after violent exercise. By the time dinner is being served I am in a fog, smiling at everyone and laughing enthusiastically at my own jokes. Soon after begins, what a military man who observed me called the mopping up operation. I walk around the various tables and whenever I see a friendly face I sit down and begin talking to him or her very earnestly and in an extremely friendly fashion. If my friend flees I go on to the next person. Soon my side of the room is emptying out while I pursue the few stragglers with Javert-like devotion to the task at hand. One person whom I caught unaware a couple of years ago was Vere Rothermere, ironically at his own daughter's wedding. Vere was too much of a gentleman to be rude in his own house, but I've noticed that ever since, he's avoid- ed England in general and parties I attend in particular.
Last Saturday was no exception. My first victim was Frank Giles's daughter, Sarah. In order to illustrate how out of it I was I spent an entire hour telling her what a great man her father was. Even poor Sarah couldn't put up with such rot and she fled the party prematurely. Soon afterwards I landed Katya Grenfell and danced a waltz with her. While I waltz I don't speak, but once the last waltz was over she too fled, to the swimming pool, where she took her revenge. My luck changed for the better when I ran into her estranged husband, also in no pain, and we then proceeded to corner Paul Channon himself.
Well, I must confess he was terribly polite but I could see what was running through his head. Hunting for girls was just as bad. I tried to recite 'Je Sais Que Vous Etes Jolie' to one, but alas there was no response. Women brought up on television, drugs, and computers are no longer the frail beauties Apollinaire used to pick up. Then I thought of ambition, writing and brain cell damage, and became almost weepy. And I remembered a shrink who used to preach that both artists and neurotics speak and live from the subconscious and unconscious depths of their souls. The artist does this positively; the neurotic negatively. The lat- ter is the 'artist manque'. So what else is new. Nothing, but it was a hell of a party.
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