‘To try to solve the puzzle of socialism’s
enduring appeal, we have to turn to
evolutionary psychology’
— Toby Young, p60
High life
Taki
As everyone who stands up when a lady
enters the room knows, the once sacrosanct
rules of civility throughout the West have
all but disappeared. The deterioration in
manners has been accelerated by the com-
ing of the devil’s device, the dehumanising
iPhone, as well as by phoney ‘art’ and artists
such as Andy Warhol and Jeff Koons. I don’t
know why, but Warhol is a bugbear of mine.
He always treated me politely, featured me
favourably in his magazine Interview, and
referred to me in a good light in his diaries.
Perhaps me being violent back then — he
headlined a cover story with a reference to
me being a terrorist among the rich — made
him think twice before he stuck the knife in.
Warhol ruined many lives by leading peo-
ple astray with drugs and false promises, but
most of all he ruined art by making it showy.
The fact that today’s hustlers sell a picture
of a Coke bottle or a shark suspended in
formaldehyde for millions is obscene. The
worship of money and celebrity is Warhol’s
legacy and art’s tragedy.
I thought of Warhol and what I call ELCP
— Extraordinarily Lower Class People — as
I roamed around London this week. Being
an ELCP has nothing to do with the old class
system; it is all about vile manners while
shopping in Bond Street. Most ELCPs are
Chinese, with dyed blond hair, wires in their
ears and an extremely vapid expression on
their faces. The only thing that matters to
an ELCP is wealth, and the ability to out-
shop the next idiot. Comfort and fame are
also prerequisites. They are forever posting
pictures of their ugly selves via the devil’s
instrument. The Tao, which was known as
the Way of Heaven, and which embodied
the sacred character of ancient China, has
gone with the same wind that swept away
the antebellum south in the US.
I may write as an oldie, but my children
agree with me. They both have impeccable
manners, although my daughter has inher-
ited my violent side. Her raised voice sends
shivers. My son, who is a great athlete and
Low life
Jeremy Clarke
I got off the plane at Changi still pleasant-
ly sedated by Xanax, passed through the
‘nothing to declare’ channel, and there, wait-
ing with my name on a signboard, was my
guide for the next four days. Joy was short,
middle-aged and had a low centre of grav-
ity. She was Chinese, she said, pleased about
it. A minibus and driver were waiting at the
kerb. ‘Get in!’ said Joy. I did as I was told. Wevery strong, has a sweet nature and thinks
only of girls all day, and definitely all night.
Both children have expressed shock to me
at how their peers see rules and traditions
as something to resist or ridicule on the
grounds that they interfere with self-expres-
sion. They also agree with me about mass
tourism, the bane of modern life.
When the hippies first told us that if it
feels good, do it, one never imagined that 40
years later their message would have become
law. One can even change gender nowadays
by declaring oneself a man or a woman, and
make the news if anyone expresses shock.
It’s all about being a victim. Now everything
goes, including activities once considered
shameful or criminal. Third-century Rome
has nothing on the 21st-century West.
Thus, despite the sadness of the occa-
sion, the hundreds of us who attended the
memorial service of thanksgiving and cele-
bration for the life of Nick Scott were a wel-
come sight. Nick was president of Pugs club,
dandy, soldier, raconteur, humorist extraor-
dinaire, gentleman, landscape artist, farceur,
great friend and as sensitive a soul as it is
possible to be without being too precious for
words. They say that you can tell a man by
his friends. Well, just check out the following:
the Maharajah of Jodhpur did a round trip
from India — 20 hours’ flying time — on his
magic carpet. The crown prince of Greece,
Pavlos, hopped on a plane in New York, flew
all night, attended the service at St Luke’s
Church, Chelsea, then drove back to Heath-
row and caught a plane back to the Bagel.
His brother, Prince Nikolaos, flew in from
Greece, as did George Livanos, whose doc-
tor has prescribed rest. Bob Geldof changed
the dates of his singing tour in order to
address us. I’ll get to that in a moment. A
part of the church was reserved for Pugs
club members and we were all advised by
the president pro tem Count Bismarck towear our club tie. Everyone, including Arki
Busson and Rolf Sachs, who never wear
neckties, did so.
Celebrations of a life are bittersweet
occasions. Some are too corny, others down-
right false. This was as good as it gets. The
Revd Emma Smith was perfect, the choir
divine, and things began to rock with Sir
James McGrigor’s childhood memories of
Nick. Rolling in the aisles, as they say. He
was followed by Commodore Tim Hoare, a
lifelong friend and Eton schoolmate. Tim is
a very serious man who shows only his funny
side to people. He spoke briefly and mov-
ingly, and generously gave Bob the rostrum.
Well, Mark Antony would have
blanched. Geldof spoke for 30 minutes and
when he finished, everyone in the church
wanted more. Both Tim and Bob spoke
with such eloquence and heart-rending
truthfulness that Nick was brought back to
life. This is a hard thing to say but I have
never in all my days heard a better eulogy.
He described Nick in depth, but his flaws
came across in a positive light, all due to
Geldof’s words. He didn’t hide a thing. Nor
did he skirt any issue. The rhythm was per-
fect, from sad to funny, from melancholy to
burst-out-loud laughter.
My only hope is that this extraordinary
eulogy has been preserved on tape. The
mother of my children called it the best ever
and I have to agree. Geldof is a poet of rare
intelligence and talent and what a pity it was
that he called me useless during the greatest
eulogy ever.Saying it with flowers