After a lifetime in nightclubs, now I party at home

It’s party time in the Bagel, and it’s about time, too. Good restaurants and elegant nightclubs are now a thing of the past, at least here in New York, so it’s home sweet home for the poor little Greek boy, for dinner, drinks and even some dancing at times. Here in my Bagel house my proudest possessions are my three Oswald Birley pictures. One is enormous and covers the whole wall of the entrance hall. The other two are a self-portrait and one of a rather grand lady. They are masterfully executed portraits, with aesthetic as well as psychological realism, an extremely difficult goal for an artist to achieve. Birley is more than equal to contemporaries such as Augustus John and John Lavery.

Sir Oswald is Robin Birley’s grandfather, and I discovered his art a long time ago, even before I had met a 12-year-old Robin on his way to school, and having lunch with his father, Mark, and brother Rupert at Wiltons. It’s strange but I prefer Sir Oswald’s paintings to some very good ones I inherited from my old dad, including the best ever Dalí, which I stupidly sold instead of keeping it for my future Austrian grandson, a de Staël I bought from the artist’s daughter, plus a Matisse and a Balthus or two.

The only nightclub I go to nowadays is in London — Robin’s place, 5 Hertford Street — but here in the Bagel I entertain at home and only good friends. It is easy to drift into meaningless jargon when listing all the things required for a successful party. In fact, there is only one: fun people. Avoiding bores is a lifelong pursuit of mine, because one bore is the equivalent to three fun people, and three bores can ruin a party of 30.