What was that about London and being tired of life? Or that flickering ecstasy of a long ago memory of being drunk at dawn and watching people going to work? Surely not at my age and in the year 2013, but there you have it. You can go home again, Thomas Wolfe had it all wrong. I felt at home all last week, at Loulou’s, on Gerald Road, and in deep Oxfordshire.
Let’s start with Gerald Road, where the Bismarcks gave a Pugs dinner to celebrate Bob Miller’s 80th birthday, Bob being the Duty Free billionaire who — surprise, surprise — is as nice, down-to-earth and sporty a man as he is rich. We took the annual picture, the three oldies — Bob, George Livanos and myself — seated up front, youngsters such as Edward Hutley, Leopold Bismarck, Princes Pavlos and Nikolaos of Greece, Roger Taylor, Arki Busson, Tim Hoare and Nick Scott standing behind us. There was a cake in the shape of a boat, as Bob is a very good and record-holding yachtsman, lots of exotic drinks, and then the grey dawn was upon us. (I did see the sun, but it was in Switzerland, before coming over here.)
Later on in the day, having chosen to flame out rather than rust out, I managed to stagger to our annual lunch, a stone’s throw from Elizabeth Street, where our oldest member, Sir Christopher Lee, was already holding court. He is now 92, has been in more than 280 films, is far more lucid than I could ever be, and was applauded by strangers as he got up after a very liquid lunch and some not so articulate efforts at speech-making by yours truly.
Getting reacquainted with a bed was a pleasant surprise later on in the afternoon, and the next thing I knew I was back at Loulou’s, my old friend Robin Birley’s life-saving club, at 5 Hertford Street. I call it a lifesaver because, like his old man, Robin knows how to hire the perfect staff. I was giving dinner to Aliki Goulandris, my daughter Lolly and her boyfriend Andy, and his beautiful sister Sacha. Then came the most pleasant of surprises. Nando, the walking death machine who was Annabel’s doorman for 40 years and is now retired, tanned and healthy at 85 years young, heard that I was dining at Hertford Street and came down from Ealing to see me. We reminisced throughout dinner about Tim Hanbury hijacking a bus full of Japanese tourists while the driver was out having a pee in Berkeley Square and the Formula 1 driver and I who outdrove the chasing fuzz and to whom Nando swore we had never left the club (the automobile must have been stolen, sir) etc., etc., etc. Once again, up came the dawn and my little Lolly was begging me, ‘Go home, daddy, you’re starting to look green and I’m worried.’
Green or not, the next day was the big one, as they say in gangster lingo in Chicago. Bob Miller’s wife Chantal and three daughters, Pia Getty, Princess Pavlos of Greece and Alexandra von Fürstenberg, were throwing him a birthday party in deep Oxfordshire, and it turned out to be a blast like no other. We were 400: 340 adults, 60-odd children. It was in the garden of Prince Pavlos’s house, where the great Eric Buterbaugh from Los Angeles had covered the tents with coral-coloured peonies and two beautiful flower pictures within picture frames. I’ve been to lotsa parties in my long life, but this one will remain in my memory if only for the décor. Ingo Maurer, who is a very big deal in art circles, had done some amazing things with the lights hanging from the ceilings, and in that beautiful art and flower setting two bars, outside and in, were working overtime.
I was seated one away from Prince Pavlos and had to behave myself. The Glenn Miller Orchestra, from the good old US of A, played tunes such as ‘Pennsylvania 6-5000’ and other old greats. Then came our turn, and 16 of us Pugs got up to sing ‘Happy Birthday to Bob’, words by Sir Bob Geldof, chorus led by Roger Taylor. ‘No, not sailing, We’re abseiling, Down the steep face of passing time, Sailing shooting Rootin Tootin, See you next year At Gunnerside.’ (Bob Miller’s shooting estate in Yorkshire.) I was just a bit late with my words, as two large screens had the stanzas for all to read, and people started laughing because I sounded like an echo. Then, after prolonged cheering, we sat down and guess who showed up and got things moving again: Diana Ross, in a sexy red outfit, belting her heart out. The place went wild. But there was more. One of the best DJs I’ve ever heard made it possible even for me to dance to modern music. I danced with Debonnaire Bismarck but she had to hold me up, and then it was time for the Queen of Greece to visit Room 101, as in Orwell’s Ministry of Love torture chamber, enduring a 25-minute drunken monologue by me and not once complaining. (Mind you, she did look uncomfortable at times.) My next victim was the King of Greece, but he’s an old hand at avoiding bores. He quickly called for help in the person of his second son, Prince Nikolaos and Lady Helen Taylor, thus avoiding the Room 101 Taki torture.
What a week! Two great nights and a fabulous one, and I’ll be back for more next week and the Spectator party. Fasten your seat belts.
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