Subject to change

My last week in London and it is just as well. One more would most likely kill me. The least frantic event was the one that Simon Phillips and Roger Moore threw in Harry’s Bar for Unicef, as worthy a charity as there is, following the Masterpiece Fair at the former Chelsea Barracks. I sat next to Britt Ekland, still sexy and still working, but my high moment was finally meeting Sir Roger’s youngest son, Christian. Many years back Christian had designs on some young blonde friend of mine, but I checkmated him by telling her she would end up in the pokey as he was 13 years old. (He was 18, and his now father-in-law, a most charming Syrian gent, has been reading The Spectator since the Sixties.)

Writing a weekly diary with metronomic regularity can, of course, bore the reader. In my 33 years of doing it in these here pages I have tried to vary them. Two weeks of high jinks, one serious one and one so-so. Mind you, we surely all agree that football is out as a subject. Italy and France have disgraced themselves, just as England has. The rest of the teams are not much better. I am referring to the phony writhing and elaborate pantomimes of agony practised by every team except the United States and possibly Germany. How can these bums take themselves seriously when caught time and again by the instant replay, untouched by an opponent, pretending to be mortally wounded? Is there another sport where such blatant cheating is accepted? Don’t these thugs have any pride? I’d rather die than writhe in false agony in front of millions. Or in real agony, for that matter. The Italians started it, the South Americans perfected it, the Africans ditto, and now it’s as much part of football as running and kicking.