Spectator, The: A game to remember

High life

Henry Kissinger gets on my nerves. He knew John Aspinall for three years, and in a short piece in the Daily Telegraph last week caught the essence of the man like no one else - all about that mystical union with nature and animals. I knew Aspers for 43 years, wrote his obituary for Taki's `Top Drawer', and only got the surface of the man. I imagine Kissinger's intellectual superiority may have crossed President Nixon's mind when he picked him as secretary of state over the poor little Greek boy, but then who knows? Joking aside, I thought it was great of Kissinger, who has not been feeling his best, to fly over all the way from New York to say goodbye to Aspers.

Now I'm not about to write another obituary of the great man, but I will tell you about a chemmy game I participated in, one that remains unforgettable as it ended in a rather bizarre manner. Back in 1967 one was still allowed to drink while punting and the game went on until the punters went broke or were too exhausted to continue. On that particular night, we were playing in that gilded plaster grand Kentian baroque room of the Clermont. Every man playing except for yours truly is dead; ergo I am spilling the beans. In number one seat, Emmett Blow, a Chicago multimillionaire; number two, the 7th Earl of Lucan, aka Lucky; number three, Sir James Goldsmith, but back then just plain Jimmy; number four, the late Lord Derby, gambler extraordinaire; number five, Colonel Bill Stirling, of SAS fame; number six, Cubby Broccoli, of James Bond fame; number seven, his wife Dana; number eight, John Aspinall; number nine, the poor little Greek boy.

Around seven in the morning I could feel the June sun burning the back of my neck through the grand bay window. Mind you, I was already sweating. I was down L30,000, Jimmy Goldsmith was down L200,000, Lucan had retired down L15,000, Cubby and his wife were even, Blow was down L100,000 and Bill Stirling down another L150,000. The only winner, John Derby, had just proposed one more shoe. That is when the Chicagoan at number one suddenly was violently sick all over the table. He also began to haemorrhage from the mouth. Aspers and three flunkies quickly removed him. None of the players made a move, sitting in stunned silence until Aspers returned and announced that Emmett Blow had just expired upstairs. `Well, let's have the last one, then,' said Derby. We all agreed. But Aspers announced the game was over. `If it gets out that we went on after a punter died, no one in London will ever speak to us again . . .' - or words to that effect.

It was just as well. The way things were going that night Derby would have won even more. Aspinall, who had to pay out immediately following the game, knew the rest of the losers would take their time paying him. Back then a casino was allowed to extend credit, and we took full advantage of it. Three nights later, while dancing in Annabel's, I suddenly saw a ghost: Emmett Blow, also dancing, and with his eyes shut to boot. The wily Aspers had announced his death in order to stop a game that was out of control. It was the highest chemmy game ever played up to that time. Soon after the laws changed yet again, and people like Aspers could not play in their own game. It was the end of chemmy and the start of punto banco, blackjack and other such crappy games. In fact it was the end of elegant gambling.

Now Aspers is gone but will not be soon forgotten. Personally, I've lost my best friend Yanni Zographos, Gordon White, Jimmy Goldsmith and John Aspinall in the last four years. I knew these men since I was in my very early twenties, gambled with them, chased women together, certainly partied with them in exotic places. Last week, at Libby Russell's wonderful party for Alexander Russell's 50th birthday, I ran into many old friends who are in their late forties. Not good enough. I now go out only with people my children's age. And on the night of Pushy's party, Jessica de Rothschild, Eduardo Teodorani, Chas Price, Serge of Yugoslavia, my daughter and about 20 others all in their mid-twenties held an anti-Pushy party that went on even longer than hers. What was it that Scott Fitzgerald said? `Beauty is youth and youth beauty, and the only way to happiness is through illusion.' He also said that `for premature adventure one pays an atrocious price'. I'm paying that price for having started very young.