The Fitzdares’ party at Annabel’s was not quite the kind of shindig I was expecting. After all, Fitzdares is a bespoke bookmaker, and bookies are not known for classy parties, only for classy fleecing of their clients. Not Fitzdares, however; a company I have invested in along with the Goldsmith boys and James Osborne, uncle of the shadow minister. Actually it was like old times. Great food, lotsa good wine, very good company, and then disaster. Fitzdares, alas, decided to go all-out the patriotic way, which other bookies have not. We backed England to win against Sweden and we wuz robbed by that late goal. As an investor, I wish they thought less of England and more of Taki, but what the hell, it’s nice to see someone who still cares for the old country who does not have an enormous beer belly, a bald head, and lotsa stupid tattoos all over.
The other thing that bothers me about Fitzdares is how nicely they treat both the winners and losers. If I had my way, only the latter would benefit from private cars and choppers, but then I’m not a businessman. And speaking of business, the poor old Queen should dissociate herself from Corporate Ascot, which is what the once- proud racecourse has turned into. What a vulgarity. Whoever is responsible for this should be knighted for turning something old and very English into an airport facility which doubles for drunks, ugly women and some good-looking horses. After all, destroying the old and beautiful gets one a handle nowadays, so why not a knighthood for those who did for Ascot what Bomber Command did for Dresden. I only went once, but I could see the disaster even before I got inside the perimeter.
Who were these people? Traders and corporate types have replaced the old aristos and the wonderful and colourful spivs who used to be as much a part of the place as the horses. Ascot has now surrendered its soul and has turned its back on its
history. In fact, the place has the grandeur of a parking ticket. Too bad, and much too sad, but this is how the modernists, whose imperative is to proletarianise everything, want it.
Mind you, just as one despairs about a gracious way of life one was used to and which no longer exists, a telephone call from Willy Shawcross gives hope. Olga and Willy have many friends, among whom are Lady Solti and the patriotic playwright Ronald Harwood. Back when I was on the tennis circuit, big ones like Emmo and Hoad used to hang out with small-timers like yours truly. And gave tips. Not many noticed. But it’s the same in the world of words. The great ones, like Sir Tom Stoppard and Ronald Harwood, are extremely nice with small fry. Why? Easy. They’re secure of their talent
I cannot think of anything I’d like to see more than Collaboration, about the relationship between Richard Strauss and his Jewish librettist Stefan Zweig. The playwright told me what a hero Strauss really was, and how he called Zweig a collaborator for killing himself in South America, thus doing what the Nazis would have wished. Although I am not turned on by women of my generation, in the case of Lady Solti, I will make an exception. Alas, I didn’t race her motor. The Shawcross party was like a good sniff of you know what, without the lousy feeling the next day.
This is supposed to be a social column, and, if it appears shorter than usual, it is the sainted editor who censors it when I try to slip in a political thought or two. But June, after all, is the season, so to hell with politics. Incidentally, if Ronald Harwood does not receive a knighthood, I will personally protest in front of Parliament dressed in a German officer’s uniform carrying a sign which says: ‘Even the Nazis would have knighted him’. I’ve often written about this outrage. How can lawyers and greedy businessmen be honoured, and not playwrights?
Incidentally, I met a beautiful girl at Willy’s, Catherine Day, who spent nine months in Iraq on her motorcycle of second world war vintage. She’s made a film about that God-forsaken place, but I am convinced she must be a spook. How can a beautiful girl risk her life for a documentary unless she’s a spook. ‘You’re too beautiful to die in Iraq,’ was all I said to her. I could have added, ten for the legs, nine for the body, eight for the face, ten for femininity. The fact that I couldn’t possess her depressed me to such a degree that I admitted to Lord Hindlip what his 19-year-old daughter pulled on me. I asked her for her number, offered eternal love and my boat, and she in turn asked me how many girls in my life I had said the same thing to. I was drunk but I am smart when it comes to such matters. ‘Seven,’ I said with a straight face. ‘In that case, here’s my number,’ said the divine Sophie. I rang her last Monday. ‘Brompton Hospital, can we help you…’ Bitch. Anyway, I only loved her because she reminds me of her older sister who is pregnant, not by me, alas, so there.
When Maya Schoenburg pointed out that she is 19, I pointed out that I am 69, and 50 years is a very good difference of age between men and women.
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