High life
Summer sport
Taki
An oily voice over the telephone informed me that it was Andrew Pearce --- or Pierce — from the London Times. The voice wished to know about my conflict of interest with the Speccie when the National Review, the conservative American fort- nightly, begins publishing here next Year' `Why don't you ask me about a conflict of interest with The Spectator when I edit the Times?' was my answer, 'because no one has yet asked me to write for the English edition of NR, just as no one has asked Me to become editor of the Times.' I should have known better. When a hack gets a bee in his jock and wants to stir things up, the only thing to do is not speak to him. I write regularly for the National Review in America and it is my favourite magazine over there, as the Speccie is over here. And NR is going to publish over here, or so I'm told. But having told the truth to the Times, I emerge in it as a fifth colum- nist. Never trust a hack.
Otherwise it has been a terrific week. First of all I am now a certified member of Imran Khan's team and I'm advertised as the greatest Greek cricketer ever. Last week I bought an all-white kit and Imran's cricket sweater with the Byzantine colours of black and gold and the tiger logo, took three tartlets with me and headed for Highclere Castle, the ancestral country seat of the Earl of Carnarvon. Any pretence of objectivity by the fans gathered there soon gave way to unrestrained fawning as soon as I emerged in my spanking new whites accompanied by my three companions with their spectacular umlauts. Better yet, I was not out because I actually was never in. It poured buckets.
So a very nice Harry Herbert gave a few of us a tour and brief history of the castle, and a wonderful pile it is. While being shown around, I suddenly remembered an old South Pacific favourite, once sung by Ezio Pinza: 'This Nearly Was Mine'. About 25 years ago, Harry's grandfather Porchie Carnarvon had asked my mother-in-law Lyna Schoenburg to marry him. Knowing his pyjama games, she said thanks but no thanks. And a pity it was, because the grounds are unbelievably beautiful and I had already spotted a place where I could have built a tanker-shaped cottage of about ten rooms. Oh well, things are tough all over.
Master John Taki and the mother of my children arrived the next day, which meant a very healthy time for me. John Taki is 12 and wants to be a vet, so off we went down to Howletts and into the cage with the baby gorillas. John and Sally Aspinall gave us a great lunch and then it was gorilla and tiger time. John Taki was allowed to go with the babies, while Damian Aspinall's baby Clary, one year old, went inside with the 450-pounders. There is no spectacle as sweet and touching as seeing an enormous female gorilla who cannot have babies pick up and tenderly nurse a 12-month-old girl. As Damian very correctly said, I would rather leave my children in the care of gorillas than with social workers.
What Aspers and his family have done for animals down in Howletts and Port Lympne is amazing, but as they have noth- ing to do with horses there will be no recognition from Buckingham Palace. Hon- ours nowadays go to those who make up tax forms for the royals, not to those who truly contribute. All I know is that John Taki called it the greatest day of his life, then forgot all about a thank-you letter. Next week I get unhealthy again, and I can't wait.
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