Gstaad
I was very sad to read of Rupert Hambro’s death. I didn’t know him well, but first met him long ago, along with his younger brother Rick, also gone. They were both quintessential English gentlemen: handsome, kind and with a great sense of humour. Rupert invited me to lunch quite a few times, but because of circumstance I was never able to reciprocate. The last one was at Wiltons, which he owned, I believe, but he never gave any indication that all was not well. In an age of crybabies and professional victims, Rupert stood out like a saint in hell. He leaves his lovely wife Robin, a Philadelphia-born beauty, and two children.
Thinking of Rupert and Wiltons, I remembered a dinner I gave there long ago for my friend Nick Scott to meet some of The Spectator people. Nick was a very funny man and writer who had not managed to publish his gems, so I decided to turn him into Shakespeare by introducing him to those in charge at this magazine: namely, our chairman Andrew Neil, the then editor Matthew d’Ancona, and the recently departed editor, Boris. Also invited were my then High Life editor Liz, and the love of my life — unbeknown to her or anyone else at The Speccie — Mary Wakefield. I sat between Liz and Mary, placed Boris at the head at one end and Andrew at the other, and some 25 of us began to make whoopee.
Oh yes, I almost forgot. I invited most of my Pugs friends to the dinner — such as the Bismarcks and the Hoares — plus some other sweet young things. Our chairman Andrew was still a bachelor back then, and arrived late from recording his TV show accompanied by two ladies (or perhaps it was three — or four or five).
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