Call Me Mister
Mick Jagger is given to frequent disguises, aliases and even drives around with blacked-out windows on his Rolls Royce. But he likes to see if not be seen. The car windows are one way, and he has equipped the penthouse of his six-story London digs with a high-powered telescope. Other avocations: reading France’s “damned” poet, Baudelaire, as his daughter Jade, 2, toddles under foot. But while in New York lately to settle a claim against an ex-manager, Jagger invoked the name of another bard when registering pseudonymously in a midtown hotel. The name, he said, was Shelley. “Percy?” queried the literary-minded receptionist. “Mister!” Mick sharply corrected.
Bobby Riggs’s experience notwithstanding, philosopher-architect Buckminster Fuller, 79, credits part of his energy, creative juices and general stream of confusion to an intake of 10 capsules a day—one vitamin B, one vitamin E, one multiple and seven vitamin C—plus a breakfast steak. Of course, he adds, “I am convinced all of humanity is born with more gifts than we know. Most are born geniuses and just get de-geniused rapidly. The ones that survive are the ones not hurt too much.”
The Cookie Crumbles
The perks—the title of “Your Excellency” and breaking bread with the Queen of England—are not trifling, but the $42,500 salary does not begin to cover the costs of playing U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s. For the incumbent Walter Annenberg, the shortfall was running $200,000 per annum, and after five years the Philadelphia publisher made plans to pack it in—until the White House couldn’t find a replacement. Among those reportedly unwilling or unable were ailing ex-Senator Thruston Morton, pickle heir Henry Heinz and Atlantic Richfield chairman Robert Anderson. Wiley T. Buchanan, Eisenhower protocol chief and socialite, seems to be the heir presumptive, and Britons can’t wait, for lame-duck Ambassador Annenberg is said to be cutting corners. The cookies at the annual July 4th tea party were, according to one American guest, “P.X. Pepperidge Farm”—instead of baked by the embassy’s pastry chef.
Measure for Measure
Kenya’s splendiferous President Jomo Kenyatta may have bespoke out of turn. On a recent shopping spree he and his son David ordered $24,000 worth of suits from the prestigious Savile Row tailors, Kilgour, French & Stanbury. Some Kenyans wondered what happened to the revolutionary ardor of the leader long known as “Burning Spear” and carped that the same wardrobe, with the same retread Gatsby look, could have been tailored in Kenya for one-tenth the cost. But a representative of Kilgour (which also suits ex-King Constantine of Greece, Victor Borge and a brace of Beatles) denied that the order was excessive. “Dear me, no!” he said. “Many of our customers spend twice as much, including the late Aga Khan. Of course he was considerably fatter.”
Mum’s the Word
No Parisian opening was considered a success without her presence. Like Eliza Doolittle, she liked to dance all night, not to mention browse about the boutiques all day. Thus Monaco’s Princess Caroline, 17, as with many other girls her age, was suddenly faced with the ignominy of flunking her French college-board exams. The Mother Superior of her convent school sent an urgent SOS to mum—Princess Grace—who shot up for a brief heart-to-heart with her light-hearted daughter. “Grimmy” (a derivative for the family name of Grimaldi), as Caroline is known by her friends, set her delectable nose to the grindstone and, thanks to a battery of tutors, passed after all.