High life | 16 July 2011

Taki lives the High life

Porto Montenegro

My friend John Sutin, the world’s most generous man, could not believe his ears. The Tivat airport in Montenegro was full and his private jet was not allowed to land. ‘Try Dubrovnik,’ was the message. So we did, the Croatian airport welcoming us by rushing us through customs as if we were big shots, rather than Nat Rothschild’s guests in neighbouring Montenegro.

A one-hour car trip saw us reach the Bay of Kotor, where the three-day-and-night bash to celebrate Nat’s 40th was taking place. The reason we were refused landing rights was that more than 80 private jets had already booked parking spaces, a fact that had me momentarily thinking of the notorious Carlos, of terrorist infamy. Had a modern Carlos decided to strike in Porto Montenegro last weekend, the capitalist system would still exist, but with a hell of a dent in it.

Bushido, thank God, was waiting for us in a perfect place in the middle of the marina, within walking distance of all the activities. Even if I say so myself, my black sailing boat stood out among the ghastly superyachts, the only graceful lady among a bunch of steroid-pumped behemoths. My problem was the two previous nights in London. Wednesday was very late, in the company of Georgie Wells, Lily Robinson and Ophelia Hohler. And Harry Worcester, Johnson Somerset and Tim Hanbury. Thursday was even worse, with The Spectator party, the Spencer House party for Everyman’s Library books and, finally, the pyjama party of Tatler at an unmentionable hotel. Before I go on, a word about the unmentionable place.

The friends I mentioned above are all witnesses. After dining at Bellamy’s, Harry Worcester had the brilliant idea to go to Claridge’s bar for a drink. We were neither drunk nor obstreperous but we were refused a table although the place was less than one third full. After politely suggesting that the management should give us one, the maître d’ came over and asked us to leave. Lord Worcester protested, as did his brother Lord John Somerset. I was at the bar and unaware we were being given the heave-ho. Once I caught on, it was too late. My party was out the door.

So here’s what I think happened and why I am outraged. We were speaking English, we were white and we had not demanded myriad bottles of champagne. The staff were obviously hoping for Gulf people, whose moolah derives from the theft of their countries’ resources. The idea that four English-speaking European gents with four ladies in tow are asked to leave Claridge’s is as outrageous as it’s foul. Talk about reverse discrimination. My only recourse is to ask loyal Spectator readers — and those of Takimag — to boycott the place until Claridge’s takes a full-page ad in the Speccie and Takimag and apologises to us.

And now back to Nat’s blast. It is very hard to appreciate things without sleep. During the first night’s sumptuous dinner in the Lido Mar pool — lined with black-and-white mosaic tiles — I drifted among the 400 guests trying to spot a poor one. And I did. With the exception of myself, there was also a London-based Iranian nightclub owner, who was discovered to have flown in by commercial airline and not to be in possession of a yacht. Rumour had it that he was pilloried in the middle of the marina and that young Montenegrans stuck gum in his hair and put insects in his nostrils, but a serious-minded policeman told me it was just that. A rumour.

I don’t remember much about the party except that I found myself next to the richest of Russian oligarchs, Len Blavatnik, and the conversation went something like this: Me: ‘You Russian?’ ‘Yes.’ Me: ‘You Jew?’ ‘Yes.’ Me: ‘You billionaire oligarch?’ No answer. Then he started. He: ‘You Greek?’ ‘Yes.’ He: ‘You Jew?’ ‘Not even close.’ He: ‘You very rich?’ Me: ‘Father big shipowner and industrialist, but me make small fortune out of big one. We probably met while you were going up and I was coming down.’ That’s when he burst into laughter.

He gave me his card and his address is in Kensington Palace Gardens, a giveaway for people on welfare. The trouble was that he could not have been nicer, laughing at my stupidities and drunken talk, not at all the ogre one expects when one hears the dreaded words Russian oligarch. Live and learn, I guess.

Next evening everyone assembled right in front of Bushido, and I revelled in the compliments about her beauty. Nat and an assortment of other Rothschilds came on board and we had a quick cocktail party before walking across the palm-fringed promenade to Nat’s last evening shindig. Yes, there were yachts and private jets galore, some awfully leggy blondes, and the place will obviously one day be a magnet for the superrich, but for the moment I am sailing down to Corfu and poor little broken Hellas, whose financial problems would be solved tomorrow if power were taken away from the politicians and given to some of the types I met over the weekend.