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.
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