Madame Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. Unreported anywhere was her dream to have a semi-steady bunk at the Waldorf Towers. She inquired the cost on a monthly basis.
In her post years, when money still meant something and she pocketed $50,000 per speech, Britain’s Grand Dame still lived like a grand old dame. For a one-day stay for a one-day lecture, she demanded an upgraded suite, 24-hour limo, and tore through $1,200 in food and bar bills.
Out of office but not out of income — nor out of her ethos — there was this veddy high-class high-level event with Lady Thatcher’s lady-in-waiting hunting Her Ladyship’s very ladylike hatbox. Announced in clipped Brit tones: “ ’Tis black with initials P.M.” P.M.? As in Margaret Thatcher? “No, as in Prime Minister.” Right. Carry on.
Meryl Streep, who played Mrs. Thatcher, claimed the role “exhausting. I needed daily massages because I had to show a curved spine like hers.”
Long ago Great Britain prepared for her farewell day. In 2008, she was 82, in good health, when Queen Elizabeth and Prime Minister Gordon Brown met to plan Thatcher’s eventual state funeral.
And a last word from Greece’s former King Constantine. I asked my once dinner partner, his unemployed majesty, what’s he fitted for now? His answer: “Very little.” Then: “Like with Thatcher, all those out of office, the problem is, who will listen to you? Everyone doted on your every word. Suddenly they no longer have to.”
SHOULD you care, JWoww’s hosting NJ’s opening of Emporio Motor Group showroom. I doubt they need a reservation for Queen Elizabeth or Gordon Brown . . . Another bulletin: Beverly Hills unreal Housewife Marisa Zanuck eating at KTCHN . . . The 26th, Sharon Stone, Tim Daly, Alfre Woodard, Tracy Morgan doing a Celebrate the Arts party in DC.
AMERICA’s current darling Jennifer Lawrence: “My breasts are a bit lopsided. And they bounce. This fascinates everyone because they seem to have a life of their own.”. . . Venice. Small workshop off a side canal. Filled with wooden sculptures of jackets, underwear, bags, luggage, shoes, ties. Large crate at the back addressed to Alan Alda. With his US address.
SAMUEL L. Jackson feasting at West 46th’s Havana Central . . . Poughkeepsie types recall Jimmy Fallon’s long-ago impromptu stand-up gigs at their Bananas joint . . . Book party in a $14 million townhouse for “Moving In: Tales of an Unlicensed Marriage” author Bruce Littlefield to his longtime partner, “If you really love me, you’d buy us this.”
MAX Irons. Tall, slim, gorgeous, talented. Well-tailored blue suit. No tie. Proper shoes. In the new film “The Host.” And wants someday not to be known “as Jeremy Irons’ son.” OK, so what else should we know about him?
“Been acting seven years. Professional two years. I’ve wanted to be an actor since I’m 16. At school in London I did Neil LaBute’s play by learning everybody’s lines.
“I had to. I have dyslexia. I handle it because I learn everything beforehand. If evaluating me, they ask, ‘Can you read the scene?’ I say, ‘Absolutely,’ and that’s because I’ve learned each person’s line ahead of time. When I write with a pen is how I then know which is my right hand.”
Sitting at a crowded Cinema Society screening, we discussed dyslexia while invitees chomped popcorn and grabbed free wine. Fotogs squeaked noises like “Whothehell’s this blonde with that long straight hair and hand on her hip posing in the tight dress with her things hanging out?”
Max looked. I looked. Nobody knew. Then Jason Wu, the new dressmaker-in-sneakers, tried to look bored while whoever recognized him snapped his picture.
OK, until he’s no longer known as Jeremy Irons’ son, some questions about being Jeremy Irons’ son. Has Daddy helped?
“I won’t work with my father. Maybe later when I’m established, but not now. It’s like a parent giving driving lessons and therefore he respects my way of doing it. I live in London, but we don’t run lines together. However, he has helped me on the business side of things.”
The publicity-seeking/boyfriend-seeking blonde with that long straight hair and hand on her hip posing in the tight dress with her things hanging took one look and zeroed in on Max Irons like a drone.
BULLETIN: Lady in Altoona had her eyes sealed shut with Krazy Glue. Her husband was very upset. He was aiming for her mouth.
TWO elderly grande dames. One to the other: “Ohh, to be 80 again.” A third person asked the speaker, “Madam, might I ask how old you are?” Her reply:
“Age is just a number. And in my case it’s unlisted.”
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.