Magazine article The Spectator

City of Danger

Magazine article The Spectator

City of Danger

Article excerpt

I sat down and calculated that if I had continued to live in London I would have died about seven years ago. Sixty is not a bad age to drop off, but I'll take 67 and kicking any time. The problem is not London, it's my friends. I've got too many good ones who live here, and who like to trip the light fantastic, as they say. Take, for example, last week. Jasper Guinness reached the seminal age of 50, and gave a party to celebrate his maturity. We sure matured - too much, in fact. Put Jasper, Timmy Hanbury, Harry Worcester, John Somerset, Charlie Glass, Robin Birley and yours truly in a room, and one's life span shortens quicker than you can say Iraq. Add a few sweet young things, and the result is the best time I've had since Robert Maxwell went swimming in the Med 13 years ago.

This was on a Tuesday. The next day, after a lunch to celebrate Jasper's 50-plus-one day, it was Annabel Goldsmith's book party. I reviewed her book for the Evening Standard, and, as I wrote in its pages, it was an unconventional review to say the least. I had sworn that I wouldn't touch a drop for the duration of the party. The trouble was that it wasn't a conventional book launch. You know the kind. Cheap white plonk, sweaty, literary types jammed into a crappy room, ugly women talking highbrow gibberish. It was the Ritz, there was champagne, beautiful young women and many buddies. I blame my demise on Lord Tebbit. There he was, always with the wonderful Lady Tebbit in her wheelchair (compliments of the brave IRA), and I just had to have the odd drink to keep him company. We discussed sailing boats and he told me a wonderful story about his son falling off one as he ogled some bikini-clad beauty off St Tropez.

After that it was all downhill. Dinner at San Lorenzo with Harry, Timmy and Johnson and a bevy of you know what. Then Tramp, where William Astor was celebrating his birthday, 21st I believe (or was it 18th?), with about 100 beauties to help him forget how disgustingly young he is. When that was over, and it wasn't over any time soon, it was Aspinall's and poker with Zac Goldsmith and other pokeristas until dawn. I hope you see my point. London is very dangerous to my health.

Mind you, I'm seriously thinking of moving back, and to hell with a long life. …

Search by... Author
Show... All Results Primary Sources Peer-reviewed

Oops!

An unknown error has occurred. Please click the button below to reload the page. If the problem persists, please try again in a little while.