London
As speaker at a posh dinner given by Jonathan and Jake Goedhuis, best UK wine merchants by far, and attended by many swells including Anthony Mangnall MP, I somehow managed to finish the speech having tasted some very good wines in between. I nevertheless got lots of mileage from pointing out the fact that we Greeks were responsible for inventing the strike (Lysistrata), an act the British unions later on perfected. Ancient Greek women refused to have sex until the men stopped fighting and the ancient Greek philosopher Taki opined that the first strike ever was therefore successful, as the men naturally preferred sex to war. Ditto homosexuality, I announced. ‘We Greeks invented it, you Brits perfected it.’
It’s fun to be back in London if only for the prevailing sense of humour. Had I said something similar in America, lots of bores and prudes would have taken umbrage and walked out.
Two days before the greatest speech since that of Mark Anthony, I attended a wonderful lunch chez les Bismarcks, full of young people who promised me lots of addresses of young women but produced absolutely nothing, and Sabrina Stoppard, Sir Tom’s bride, whom I hadn’t seen in years. We reminisced about our respective youths. Hers was healthier than mine. But memory is known to play tricks, and mine ain’t what it used to be. I told Sabrina how I first met the playwright. I was walking along with a pretty girl after a party and looking for a cab. A jalopy stopped and a curly-haired gent asked if we needed a ride. I recognised Tom and accepted. I asked him if he’d like to join us for dinner. ‘I have to babysit,’ said the great man.
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