Bright young things
Taki
Suleiman Khan, son of Imran and Jemima, got me out late last Saturday, after a fast-bowling Ben Elliot had failed to do so despite employing all sorts of tricks against the poor little Greek boy, who only took up cricket aged 64. There was only one thing wrong. Suleiman is nine years old and less than five feet tall, whereas I am 69 and 5-foot-nine. The little blighter is a spin-bowler and he confused me enough to ensure that I was caught out. Mind you, the Hanbury team, which I play for, won over Zac Goldsmith’s Eleven with some brilliant cricketing by Mark Shand, Dave Cottrell, Harry Worcester and others too young for me to mention, although it did look funny when Shariah Bachtiar, the world’s greatest Persian, and the poor little Greek boy were batting together while our English teammates watched. And drank, and then drank some more.
Actually, last Saturday was straight out of Brideshead Revisited, a brilliant cloudless day. Good weather puts everyone in a very good mood. Some really pretty girls made the mood even better. Marina and Rose Hanbury, Poppy Delevigne, Lucy Bridge, Violet von Westenholz, Sophie Allsop — you get the picture. It’s amazing that I only dropped one ball. And watching, in a very short skirt, was the alluring Jemima. That evening Zac and Sheherazade Goldsmith entertained in their wonderful house near Tavistock, and it was a very tired Greek who finally made it back to London on Sunday. My only regret is that God gave me only one liver.
Which may not have been functioning very well two nights earlier when I had to leave the Bismarck house in order not to make a fool of myself in front of a quite sophisticated group. (I spent what was left of the night on a nearby pub bench and felt hunky-dory as dawn broke.) This week I’m off to Ascot and then who knows where. Wimbledon is an option, but I only like the outside courts nowadays. My fearless prediction is that I don’t know. The field is so crowded with players who can win the whole thing if they’re on form during the fortnight that it’s better to sit on the fence. Federer is the obvious favourite to make it four in a row, but I wouldn’t bet the whole farm, just half of it.
One thing I am pretty certain about is Andy Murray. Yes, he won the Orange Bowl at 12 years of age, and at 17 the US Open juniors, and he is ranked 45th in the world at only 19, but I don’t see him ever winning Wimbledon because of the pressure. Those nagging injuries he has suffered recently are a direct result of nerves. Too tight. Floyd Patterson suffered from nerves, which made his back seize up when fighting Liston and Ali. I thought I saw something similar while watching Andy play. I also think Murray’s temperament is not all there. Brits are good at team sports; not so good as individual performers, or so I believe. Incidentally, I read a very good line somewhere about football. It is an extension of politics by other means. If only that were true.
But enough of sport. Let’s get into the world of upper-class gossip. About 20 years ago, Liza Campbell asked me to suggest to the then editor of The Spectator, Charles Moore, that she should write the week’s Diary. If I remember correctly, Charles said she wasn’t known except to a very few, and that the Speccie’s policy was to ask people who had distinguished themselves in some field to write the Diary. Well, now she is known — for getting even with her father, the 25th Thane of Cawdor (who is no longer with us to defend himself) in her coruscating book Title Deeds.
I am of two minds. The first is that old cliché about not washing our dirty linen in public and all that. The second is that most of it sounds true. But I never met her old man. Was there physical and sexual abuse? The writer gives us clues, but nothing is certain. As the father of a girl, I simply cannot imagine it, but I am told it happens all the time. The little I read of the book is extremely well written.
Having been cut off by the system and her father’s profligacy, she may need the moolah, and who am I to tell her that this sort of thing ain’t done? If one leaves one’s children to fend for themselves, one wakes up (or not, as in his case) with bad surprises at times. Don’t blow the lot at Ascot this week — if you have kiddies, that is.
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