Missing person

On board S/Y Bushido, off St Tropez

My book party’s best line was Claus von Bülow’s, as told to Antony Beevor, Piers Paul Read, Paul Johnson and Sir V.S. Naipaul, among the literary worthies who took the time to attend the poor little Greek boy’s launch at Brooks’s. ‘The last book party I attended,’ said Claus, ‘was that of Leni Riefenstahl’s about 15 years ago. I had with me an Israeli friend, Ronald Fuhrer, who eventually got into a spot of trouble and had to flee England overnight. Ronnie went up to Leni, told her what a great admirer he was and asked her to sign his book. “How do you spell your name?”asked the author, abjuring the Hitler connection to the bitter end.’

I particularly enjoyed the attention of all the pretty girls, especially those invited by my daughter, but then my editor Liz Anderson gave me the bad news: my betrothed, the Speccie deputy editor, had chosen to immolate herself rather than go through the gruesome wedding ceremony awaiting her at the Ritz. So I did the next best thing and got completely drunk at my dinner party following the launch. The great Paul Johnson, always looking on the bright side of things because of his Christian faith, said that she might not have done it on purpose. I know better.

Even more humiliating than being left at the altar was when a young, good-looking man wandered into the room and started looking nonchalantly around. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘Oh, nobody in particular; my name is Fraser Nelson.’ ‘Leave the room at once,’ I told him. ‘You’re much too young, you’re showing me up.’ Then I bent down and kissed his right shoe. I was then comforted by Lady Naipaul, the kind Nadira, who told me I could still be a contender aged 73.