Am I the only one who thought ‘justice has been done’ when I saw that picture of Nancy Dell Olio dumped in a wheelbarrow legs akimbo being ploughed through a muddy field by a disgruntled lackey? If only she were being wheeled to immigration safe in the knowledge Miss Dell Oilio will never to darken our shores again. But alas, no, it was another publicity stunt by the woman for whom low self-esteem is as alien a concept as poor boyfriends.
The Daily Mail decided to send Signora Ligalotti to the Glastonbury Festival. Glastonbury, or ‘Glasto’ as the entire staff of the BBC insist on calling it with a patronising, smug smile, is my ninth circle of hell. I would rather pour cherry brandy over my testicles and strike a Swan Vesta than choose to pay good money to wallow like a sow in a muddy field just for the privilege of hearing Bono and the Tax Dodgers caterwaul from a makeshift stage while wearing more black leather than an S&M convention. The smell, the squelch and the stickiness alone would put me off…and that’s just Bono’s strides.
I’m much more fan of the thwack, the shriek and the collective ‘oooooh’ that is Wimbledon. Hasn’t the action on court been sensational? Loved the Sharapova match with Laura Robson. Love Nadal as much for his seemingly constant ‘underwear issues’ as his backhand. Adore Djokovic smashing his racket to smithereens yesterday evening like Basil Fawlty. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? But isn’t the action in the Players’ Box simply the bee’s knees?
It seems Venus and Serena Williams’s father has married again. The new wife has the look of Winnie Mandela when crossed and wears African dictator shades and a conspicuous amount of jewellery with a sense of entitlement. No wonder first wife Oracine always makes sure there are two fat daughters in between she and tennis’s answer to the second Mrs DeWinter. Judy Murray is just a joy. She gurns, snarls and pumps her fist with all the conviction of John Knox in drag. Hard to like, Andy Murray, isn’t he?
We all try to get behind a Brit but you don’t tend to warm to someone who scowls, bellows and fist punches like an ogre when he wins the toss-up let alone a set. My advice? Shave off the tufty bum fluff, get your hair cut and be polite to linesmen then middle England might warm to you. But win or lose, Judy Murray has a glittering career ahead of her as the new presenter of The Weakest Link when Anne Robinson’s plastic surgeon finally retires.
Still, too much grooming is a terrible thing, no? Did you see that picture of Shane Warne with Elizabeth Hurley at Elton’s White Tie & Tiara party? The last time I looked, Warne was a shagging, drinking, son-of-a-bitch Aussie bum. Now he’s Elizabeth Hurley’s poodle with what appears to be threaded eyebrows, pink lip gloss, waxwork skin and dyed eyelashes. Now I’ve got nothing against Elizabeth Hurley except I think she’s basically a posh version of Jade Goody famous only for lamentable films and one of Gianni Versace’s more unfortunate lapses in taste.
Mrs T and I did find the holy grail of perfection last week on an appointment with the lovely Nawal at the Sotheby’s Diamonds presentation on New Bond Street. Nawal is arguably one of the most knowledgable and passionate diamiantieres in the business. He and I spent a fabulous week in South Africa and Botswana courtesy of our fearless leader Susan F of DeBeers fame on an exploratory tour of the diamond business on the coal face as t’were.
I will tell you all about the diamond trip another time but the most thrilling adventure came at the climax of a water safari on the Chobe River: a resort where Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton married for the second time. Well, of our party was Sally Morrison who was ETs press attache and, incidentally, was the spokeswoman when the great Elizabeth died. Anyway, Sally and Nawal had seen the most marvellous canoes hollowed out of felled trees by the natives. Could they ship one each back to New York to use as planters or garden benches or so forth?
Our game warden said yes indeed. All we had to do was sail across the Chobe River from the Botswana coast to the Namibian coast where friendly natives would be waiting to show us the canoes and take the money. Well, there was me sailing along at sunset gin and tonic in hand smoking a Pall Mall when what do we see but Namibians on the banks of the river armed with shotguns. Frightened the life out of me because it is, I learned later, illegal to set foot on Namibian soil. Long story short, money exchanged hands and we high tailed it back to Botswana shores like Donald Campbell in Bluebird IV.
I digress. Sotheby’s Diamonds is a private collection of ingenious pieces of high jewellery designed by the great James de Givenchy (nephew of the last of the great Paris couturiers Hubert de Givenchy). The diamonds, sourced from Steinmetz, are the rarest and finest you or I will ever see in a lifetime. I’m sending you a snap of a D-flawless 10-carat pear-shaped diamond ring so exquisite that it quite hypnotised Mrs T and I. The other picture is of Mrs T trying on her first tiara. Only kidding. It is Marilyn in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes uttering the immortal line ‘Oh, I just love finding new places to wear diamonds’.