A transatlantic party route

Breaker Media, which has established itself as one of New York City’s foremost bean-spillers, hosted its first shindig at the West Village’s Super Burrito. Exuberant Aussie founder Lachlan Cartwright, an unashamedly old-school hack with a business card wedged in the brim of his fedora, mounted the bar and gave an impassioned speech: “I might as well have called this Broken Media because it’s almost broken me! But I’m having the time of my life.” So too were the guests as they guzzled martinis and snagged cigarettes from bowls on the tables. During one cig break, I had my fortune read by one of the party’s hired psychics. She said all the right things – “born under a lucky star, many children etc.” – but I was too distracted by a stilettoed, ankle-tagged Anna Delvey about to have her fortune read on the next table. Who’s conning whom?

Uptown for a wine supper at the Brook Club hosted by Theo Osborne, younger brother of former British chancellor George. The guest speaker was former UK defense secretary Grant Shapps, who rose to toast the “special relationship.” He spoke of our precious democracies, our common foes and the importance of investment in defense. From the lady on my right, I heard a wild story about a woman who went for a boob job in Turkey, only to be told at her next doctor’s visit that one of her kidneys was missing. The woman on my left, meanwhile, asked me to guess her ancestry. Hoping I would fall into the trap and say “Asian,” she was startled when, having developed an obsession with the Comanche as a young boy, I correctly identified her as Native American. But I had my tribes wrong. The lady in question was a quarter Crow.

Air Mail sang its swansong at the launch of the Tom Wolfe Prizes for Fiction and Reportage at the Waverly Inn, hosted by Air Mail founder, and Waverly owner, Graydon Carter. The prize recognizes young authors in the “new journalism” tradition pioneered by Wolfe, whom Carter described in his speech as “the most inventive writer since P.G. Wodehouse.” Seth Meyers emceed and the room was packed with familiar faces: Sarah Jessica Parker, Matthew Broderick, Bette Midler, Walter Isaacson. All the Air Mail/Vanity Fair gang were present – many commenting how this inaugural event felt oddly more like a farewell dinner, even though its acquisition by Puck, the newsletter start-up founded by former Graydon Carter staffer Jon Kelly, had yet to close. Since then, the $16 million deal has closed. According to Breaker, this means it is being sold at a loss. But that is not what is grating on Carter, who stepped down as part of the deal. What irks him is that Kelly is a former assistant. No master likes being gamed by his apprentice.

The British Museum threw its inaugural Pink Ball last month. Fêted as London’s answer to New York’s Met Ball, it raised more than £2.5 million for the museum’s international partnerships. But not everyone was rosy about it. An Energy Embargo for Palestine activist who, passing as a waitress, interrupted British Museum chairman George Osborne’s speech to rail against its sponsorship deal with BP. Unfurling a banner reading “Drop BP now!” she squealed: “If the British Museum truly wants to confront its cultural legacy, it should look at the way it is actively upholding imperialism today.” Osborne handled the situation like any seasoned politician – “It is great to live in a democracy where we have a right to protest, etc.” – before the waitress was escorted out.

I could have used some of George’s polish when I later had the chance to meet one of my heroes. I was having an amusing moment with Daphne Guinness – something I had said about the passage of time causing her to break into an operatic rendition of David Bowie’s 1972 “Five Years” – when she offered to introduce me to Mick Jagger. I couldn’t think of anything to say so I told Mick we had just been singing “Five Years.” “Right,” was his understandable response. What I should have told him was the story of how my father was once photographed sitting between him and Imran Khan at the 1996 Cricket World Cup final in Lahore; they had partied together the night before. The newspaper’s front-page photo caption the next day read “Mr. Imran Khan, Mr. Somebody and Mr. Mick Jagger.”

While at dinner, I heard the sad news that Lady Annabel Goldsmith had died. Annabel lived a colorful life, marrying two larger-than-life characters in Mark Birley and Jimmy Goldsmith and raising five children. I had the pleasure of interviewing her years ago for a book I’m putting together about my grandfather, the conservationist John Aspinall. They remained great friends, despite an incident which might have destroyed their relationship. In 1970, Aspers took Annabel and her children into the tiger enclosure at his wild animal park, Howletts, in Kent, England. But on this occasion, the tigress Zorra was acting unpredictably and pounced on Annabel’s son Robin, locking her jaws around his face. After being wrenched free, Robin was rushed to hospital with half his face missing; he would have to undergo years of facial reconstruction surgery. When Annabel and I discussed this incident, I was astonished at how she harbored no feelings of blame. Instead, she took full responsibility for having listened to Aspers and not to her own maternal instinct. By all accounts, this was typical Annabel: resilient, uncomplaining, forgiving. RIP.

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s December 8, 2025 World edition.