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.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in