High life

‘Nobody would be happier than me if, in 50 years’ time, the Prime Minister, the Archibishop of Canterbury, the Poet Laureate, the Lord Chief Justice, the Regius Professor of History at Oxford and the editor of the Times were all non-white.’ So wrote Stephen Glover last week, just in time to further embarrass James Watson, the Nobel laureate and renowned co-discoverer of the structure of DNA. My first reaction was to wonder how thrilled, say, Kenyans might feel if someone were to write how happy they would be if Kenya’s President, Chief Justice, editor of the Kenya Times and Archibishop of Nairobi were all white in 50 years. The irony is that Africa could be saved from itself if Europeans recolonised it, the way the Chinese are doing as I write.

New York While on the tennis circuit from the mid-Fifties to 1965, it was an open secret that there was a lot of hanky-panky going on in the women’s locker rooms. Mind you, lady players were much older than they are now, but there were still some pretty young and impressionable girls competing who took ‘coaching’ from older female players. Competitors back then chose not to know, although in late-night bull sessions and poker games the subject would inevitably be joked about. Actually, I bring it up because of the tennis coach who is facing jail after being convicted of having a year-long lesbian affair with the 13-year-old she was coaching.

New York Ain’t that a bitch! What else can one say? The way I figure it, it was 357 columns without a miss for the first seven years, then, after a Pentonville break, 1,275 straight until last week. The lawyers broke my streak, but then they would. And in my 30th year, too. Well, what the hell, all good things come to an end, but at least only Claus von Bulow rang to inquire whether I had dropped dead. Actually, I ran the offending piece on my website, www.takimag.com, so it did see the light of day, and 100,000 visitors got to read it, so there. What’s interesting is how things have changed in the past 30 years. Libel laws are supposedly not as strict as they used to be, but don’t you believe it.

One tends to do a lot of reading on board a boat while sailing far from the madding yobs. Mostly books, thank God, as newspapers are hard to find until they’re ready to wrap fish. The Spectator, of course, is sent to wherever I am by my nice personal assistant, who buys it first thing Thursday morning and has it delivered by special messenger to the nearest marina. When times are good it comes even faster, with sweet young London things doing the delivering. Last week I read David Gilmour’s review of The Force of Destiny, by Christopher Duggan, and a very interesting review it was of a book I hope to buy soon. Except for one thing. Gilmour links us Greeks with the Ethiopians in both having defeated the Italians. Well, for one thing the Ethiopians did not.

I simply can’t understand why so many Greek women resemble Scandinavians. Everywhere I look there are blondes — fat blondes, short blondes, hairy blondes, but blondes nevertheless. On board S/Y Bushido I simply can’t understand why so many Greek women resemble Scandinavians. Everywhere I look there are blondes — fat blondes, short blondes, hairy blondes, but blondes nevertheless. Could it be the carbon-dioxide emissions that cause this phenomenon, or is there something in the water that turns dark-haired women into fair ones? I suppose we’ll never find out. Never mind. Whereas northern types have been known to snore at the wrong moment, Greek ladies are hot-blooded, hence Greek men get awfully turned on. Personally, I prefer dark-haired girls.

OK. It is early 1964, the Profumo scandal has proved beyond reasonable doubt that English men can also be swingers (and with women, to boot), and my friend Yanni Zographos and I have just had a big win upstairs at Aspinall’s and are taking the circular inside staircase that connects Annabel’s with the casino. Suddenly two nuns block our way. My first thought is a prurient one. Both nuns are great lookers. Then, out of the blue, one of them begins to undo Yanni’s fly and quicker than you can say Monica Lewinsky she services him. I am in my twenties, I am shocked and appalled that a nun would do such a thing, but all sorts of crazy ideas are fogging up my mind. What to do next?

Gstaad Elie de Rothschild, who died a couple of weeks ago while on a shooting trip in Austria aged 90, once told me the story of a young Arab kebab seller who always parked his stand across from la Banque Rothschild on rue Lafitte. The Arab was asked for a loan by an acquaintance of his. ‘Look here,’ he told the man, ‘I have a deal with the bank across the street. I will not lend money and the Rothschilds will not sell kebabs.’ End of story, as they say. I thought of Elie, with whom I used to play polo, when the you-know-what hit the fan last week. Bankers should act like bankers, and not kebab salesmen. The latter try to sell to anyone within hearing distance. In the good old days, bankers lent money to those who could repay.

Here, at last, is the Taki plan to save George W. Bush’s presidency from the disaster it has been turned into by his neocon advisers. Yes, the Iraq war is a failure, but pulling out now will turn it into a geopolitical catastrophe of incalculable consequences. What Dubya needs is a great big fat win which will overshadow Iraq, hog the headlines and catapult him in the polls. The operative word is Palestine. Let’s take it from the top: His latest call for an international conference, one that is supposed to give birth to a contiguous Palestinian state, is a good start.

On board S/Y Bushido I changed my mind about going to Capri. Apparently no heterosexuals are allowed on the island during August, so I turned to starboard and headed for Sardinia. The last time I was there I was in my early fifties, my children were in school, and I was running after someone who is now in her late forties. Oh and, yes, I almost forgot, the Sardinian waters were as clean and clear as they get. No longer. The first mega-monster I crossed was the ghastly Abramovich stink pot, a humungous bad-taster whose personality reflects that of its Russian owner. No wonder the Sardinian sea now resembles Blackpool. Mind you, not all stink pots are the same.

On board S/Y Bushido Sailing away from St Tropez, I felt a bit like Lot; I asked the wife to take one last look, but Alexandra, alas, remained unsalty and very much in command. Portofino was the next stop, probably the most beautiful of tiny ports anywhere in the Med, green and very much up and down rather than sideways. I got off and began to climb a small path snaking around grand villas to the top, passed the magnificent Hotel Splendido, where once upon a time I took a German countess for a dirty weekend, and she came down with the flu, leaving me alone in the bar talking to strangers. I heard some Cole Porter tunes playing and went in. The place was unchanged and as grand as ever but for one thing: the people.

On board S/Y Bushido My closest friend Yanni Zographos, who died 11 years ago, had a system for picking up women with young children in tow. As he passed a mother pushing a pram he would announce to no one in particular, ‘Les jolies mamans font des jolies bébés...’ Starting in the summer of 1956, my first free year after 11 years in captivity, I put his theory to the test. In the 51 ensuing years I can confirm that neither Yanni nor I ever managed to pick up a single woman with that line. Still, we always remained upbeat and confident. Another favourite pick-up line of Yanni’s back in the Fifties was to yell ‘taxi’ while riding in his Bentley convertible in Athens.

On board S/Y Bushido Last Friday the 13th was not a good-news day. I was in Ibiza, sailing around, when the papers were brought in and I read about the death of my old and very good friend Nigel Dempster. Actually, it was a blessing. He had been suffering for years and every time I spoke with him – to him, rather, as he was unable to towards the end — it was getting worse. Talk about the end of an era. How I miss the good times with him. Then over the telephone we heard that Huntsie Schoenburg, my 19-year-old nephew, a six-foot-four blond Yale student, and the sweetest and kindest boy I know, has to have chemo for a brain tumour. (The outlook is good, however, as the thing was discovered in time.) Finally, the results of the trial in Chicago.

Rome They changed the name of the most famous city in the world, and renamed the place Valentino, or so it seemed last weekend in the Eternal City. What can I say? I know nothing about fashion, except that I know a beautiful dress when I see one, but I do know a lot about parties, and this one took the cake, all three days of it. Valentino’s blend of elegance and sexiness has always attracted brand names. I suppose Jackie Onassis was among the first to spot his rare talent, but, to his credit, Valentino never went the way of Lagerfeld and other snooty seamstresses. In fact, on the contrary. The bigger he got, the nicer he became.

To the Carlton Club for an oversubscribed dinner moderated by Michael Binyon with Liam Fox and yours truly speaking about the Middle East. When my turn came I shyly pointed out that I was honoured to be invited because the usual subject I’m asked to discuss is Paris Hilton or jail. ‘Why don’t you do just that?’ yelled someone from the audience. Oh well, not everyone is as polite as Sergei Cristo, the big shot at the club who had the temerity to invite me. Unsurprisingly, the Middle East seems to be on everyone’s mind nowadays, everyone except Paris Hilton’s, that is.

When a lame-duck draft dodger pardoned a major crook and fugitive —along with his very own drug-dealing half-brother — American public opinion was righteously outraged. It was par for the course for Bill Clinton, but at least he didn’t saddle the country with anything worse than having to put up with a ghastly person like Mark Rich walking freely around in polite society. His buddy Tony Blair has done better. Even lamer than Clinton was when he handed out the pardons, old Tone has burdened this country with a nice ‘High Representative’ who will decide when and if the British Lion will roar. How’s that for a long goodbye? Mind you, it’s not as bad as it sounds.

I kissed a top FBI agent flush in the mouth while in my cups at Elaine’s last week, and lived to write about it. And it was a stolen kiss, at that. They’re the best kind, now that I’m old enough to see how corny a prelude to a kiss is at my age. I was on my way to the loo when I saw Elaine, the proprietor, talking to the agent. I was introduced and I used a variation of the old Mae West joke, ‘Is that a gun you’re carrying, or do you like my girlfriend?’ Then I grabbed the G-man and kissed her. Special agent Anne Beagan was startled, but did not reach for her gun. Instead, she asked me to sit down and we had a bottle of wine together.

Kent To this beautiful New England village near the New York–Connecticut border, home to the great designer Oscar de la Renta and his wife Annette, both very old friends of mine. Two even older friends, Reinaldo and Carolina Herrera, were already there, making it a perfect house party. The de la Renta house is a jewel. Beautifully manicured rolling lawns and grand old trees and topiaries amid thick woods remind one of Oxfordshire, but the plumbing works, the furnishings are priceless and the staff impeccable. Lots of dogs, yes, but there are no moths stuck on the windows, no mud or urine stains in the drawing-room, and the showers work; a perfect Anglo-American country house combining the best of the two cultures.