High life
Sobering up
Taki
New York I don't know about you, but I badly need a rest from the holidays. The nights be- tween Christmas and the New Year are known to be dangerous to one's health, especially in the Big Bagel, where whoop- ing it up is almost as big a business as the charity scam. My physical collapse began with my house party on Christmas Eve. For reasons I cannot divulge I drank too much fire-water much too early in the day, and by the time dinner was over I was able to do a better imitation of Anthony Haden- Guest than the 'beast' himself. The wife didn't help matters. She insisted on playing Sherlock Holmes throughout the evening, checking up on the identity of various girls I had invited, and asking them questions not even El Al asks travelling Palestinians. Mind you, it is very pleasant to get plastered in one's own house. Every time I do — which is often — I think of poor Jeff passing out in foreign places such as the Groucho Club or the Coach and Horses and cringe. By contrast, when he and I went drinking together and ended up back in my London flat, he passed out at five in the afternoon, woke up at five in the morning and joined the party that was going on full blast without realising he had . had a 12-hour rest in between vodka-and- limes.
Yes, such are the joys of drinking at home. Another who knows this all too well is Geoffrey Wheatcroft. Although he is known to pass out in far grander abodes than mine, he and I once went to sleep while discussing the meaning of life. (Or perhaps the meaning of a certain girl.) When my housekeeper discovered us in the morning she thought we were awake but deep in contemplation. We were sitting very upright on the sofa, and only when our heads slowly began to touch did she realise we were both out cold.
No sooner had I recovered than it was time to get into shape for pre-New Year's Eve celebrations. Unfortunately, I am not as strong as I once used to be, and they left me feeling rather flat on the night that counted. Nevertheless I gave a good account of myself at the wonderful party Reinaldo and Carolina Herrera gave, although I must admit some of the guests who didn't know me thought I was speak- ing Swahili toward the end.
And speaking of guests, I met Ken Tynan's widow, Kathleen Tynan, that night, and she turned out to be great fun despite the fact she's such a dirty commie pinko. Tynan is a friend of Fidel Castro, I believe, so I had to remind her that it was 30 years ago that the bearded butcher took over Havana. I remember it well, as my friend Zographos burst into my room at the Gstaad Palace and announced that our Havana nights were over. It was terrible news, as bad as when Zographos had announced that Marshal Papagos had out- lawed all the brothels in Greece back in 1953. But do you think there were any demonstrations outside the Cuban legation to mark the 30th anniversary of Castro's rule in that dismal prison-land? Of course not. On the contrary, the romantic infatua- tion of many intellectuals and Hollywood trained seals continues unabated. (Some did, however, write him a letter.) Oh, well, it is now 1989, and I have made some resolutions. One of them is never to write about politics in a 'High life' column again, and certainly never again to refer to anyone I don't agree with political- ly as a malakas (Greek for wanker). I have also sworn never to drink again, chase young girls, gamble, smoke and waste time. No more Annabel's, no more Tramps, no more Nell's, no more Mortim- er's, and no more anti-Sandinista rhetoric. Nineteen eighty-nine will be a year of healing, as they say, and if you believe this you're bound to believe that Castro will resign because some pointy-heads asked him to.
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