In love with London
Taki
rro HMS Belfast, Europe's last big-gun
armoured warship, anchored off Tooley Street, London. The occasion is a fund-raising dinner and a speech by yours truly for readers of Right Now, the bimonthly for those who would rather be ruled by Britishers than Belgians. Derek Turner, the editor of Right Now, assembled a large group of the converted, and as we were piped on board the quarterdeck among the turrets and the 40mm Bofors, there is an overwhelming feeling of the way we were. Old and young, men and women, all well-behaved, patriotic, oldfashioned British.
The Hutton whitewash is on everyone's lips and no one's best pleased with the outrage. Once shown to my table in the Gun Room, seated between John Beveridge and patron of Right Now Lord Massereene and Ferrard, disaster. I have left my speech back in Caclogan Square and the Revd John Papworth is saying Grace and some very nice things about the speaker. (When was the last time a man of God like John Papworth said such nice things about a sinner like myself?) Then Derek Turner introduces me as the greatest living Greek, I stand up to a wonderful reception, and — silence. I fess up and then go on to wing it for approximately 30 minutes without notes.
A wonderful evening among the nicest people and lotsa nostalgia for the Britain I first came to love and no longer give a damn about. Not a single hideous oik in sight, no grotesque Michael Jackson-worshipping morons, no cheap celebrities or It girls. Needless to say, I drink too much firewater and join up with three crazy Russians, a viola player, a photographer and a writer at Annabel's, once again the premier London nightclub.
Two nights later, it's back to Annabel's, and yet another speech, this time in honour of Jemima Khan — my Beatrice — celebrating her 30th birthday. But before I go on about the party, a few words about beauty, desire and unrequited love. My love for Jemima is indeed unrequited, but that doesn't stop me from admiring her beauty and sexiness. Love, unrequited or not, is ontological, being in its most vivid state, the faint whisper of hope, a promise forever elusive. Stendhal said that 'beauty is the promise of happiness'. Well, not in my case. A recent book on beauty by John Armstrong claims: 'The love of beauty involves a yearning which is not — and perhaps cannot be — fulfilled.' That's more like it. One thing's for sure. Trying to define love in every tedious aspect, psychologically, physiologically, whatever, is an exercise American female academics indulge in while trying not to look into the mirror too much in case they throw up. Which reminds me. The reason I was so sad when Jemima's party ended was because there was not an unpleasant person in sight. Everyone was so young and good-looking, so full of life and fun. There were at least ten tens there, an unheard of achievement, and again, no oiks, no hacks, no publicity-seeking It tarts.
Looking back, the ancient Greeks had it right. Beauty may be granted by the Almighty, but it sure helps with the manners. Show me a very ugly creature and more often than not they're pretty ugly inside too. I will not name names — I'm at an age when one needs to be nice and make peace — but some of the hacks who relish attacking people who cannot answer back are among the ugliest looking. I'm thinking of the late Alan Clark and the awful things people have written about him recently. Perhaps if those hacks ever got laid, they might not be as envious of Alan. Not that there were any hacks at Jemima's. A few celebrities like Hugh Grant and Rosario of Bulgaria (the best-looking man of his generation), Zac Goldsmith, and lotsa beautiful young men and women. I was very honoured to be the only speaker, comparing Jemima to Zuleika Dobson, Beatrice, Penelope, Juliet and Dulcinea, and finished with a stanza which I have sent to many, but is meant only for her: Heaven without you would be too much to bear, and Hell would not be Hell if you were there.
Is there a future for post-prandial speechmaking for the poor little Greek boy? I don't think so. Unfortunately, I have to drink to feel comfortable in front of an audience, and once I've drunk I have trouble with words. For example, I forgot what Penelope was knitting those 20 years that Odysseus was away. As the video is not yet out, no one came to my aid. Oh well, one week after complaining about how horrid London has become, I had the best time of my life three nights running. And there's Leonie Frieda's book party yet to come and a black-tie dinner at Osama bin Laden's club. What the hell. If a lady can change her mind, why can't an old lecher like me?
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