Two big drinkers in the news: John Galliano and Serge Gainsbourg. You've probably heard most of the stories about them but here are two more ...
There is nothing remotely funny in telling someone they're a dirty Jew who, in an different era, would have been packed off with the whole family to Hitler's gas chambers.
I did suggest, in my piece for The National on John Galliano's appalling behaviour in Paris, that he of all people is a surprise as a Hitler enthusiast, since the Nazis were not that keen on homosexuals and the designer's preferences are well known.
The only complication, as I also noted, is that some historians have suggested the Fuhrer was gay, or bi-sexual.
Galliano has apologised and said he is seeking help. This cuts more ice than his earlier bombast, a categorical denial to give categorical denials a thoroughly bad name.
My only Galliano story has nothing to do with his drinking or post-drinking conduct. Just an everyday tale of fashionistas in Paris.
We'd met a charming Irish couple at a restaurant on the Left Bank. They were staying near our flat - not, of course, our flat at all but The Daily Telegraph's - and we took them home for a nightcap.
Soon after we'd sat down in the glorious lounge that one writer described as a ballroom, the Telegraph's fashion editor Hilary Alexander appeared. One of the Paris fashion shows was on at the time, and Hilary was staying (a DT ruse to save on hotel costs, fair enough since the flat was enormous).
She'd been dropped off outside on the rue de Rivoli by Stella McCartney. After dinner with Stella, Nicola Kidman and Karl Lagerfeld. Hilary moves in such circles.
My new Irish friends had just completed a fabulous journey on the Orient Express to celebrate 30 years of marriage. They were to cap the trip with a night at the Stade de France, where Ireland were the visitors in a World Cup qualifying game (not the hand-of-Thierry one, but some time before). They were not short of a punt or two and intended to fly in their three daughters and some friends on a private jet from Dublin to join them.
Why not go along, too, they asked? Not everyone in the Salut! household appreciates football and it seemed a tough one to negotiate for a Saturday night, until Hilary piped up: "You go to football and I'll take Joëlle to the Galliano show."
That's what happened. Burly security men were apparently brushed aside as Hilary - "don't you know who we are?" - whisked the passless Joëlle through to her ringside view of what was to happen next. And I ate chips and sipped beer with Daughters of Erin outside the Stade de France before sharing their joy at a gallant fighting draw against the then mighty French.
Like Galliano, Serge Gainsbourg, about whom we have been hearing a lot since his death was 20 years ago yesterday, had a weakness for the bottle. He still managed to come up with great, memorable pop songs, just as Galliano apparently creates nice frocks, and is remembered these days at least as much for his artistic achievements as for his demons.
His alcohol-fuelled bêtises are well documented: burning a 500-franc note on television, telling a talk show host, in French and then in English to make sure everyone understood what he was saying, that he wanted to f*** a fellow guest, Whitney Houston.
But I am indebted to the Var-Matin, and its outstanding anniversary coverage produced by my confrère Laurent Amalric, for another, less familiar tale.
It was in the 1980s and Gainsbourg was installed in a bar on the Place des Lices in St Tropez. Someone whispered to him that journalists were on the prowl nearby.
Quick as a flash, Serge pushed aside his soda water and ordered a double pastis.
Comme ça, reports Var-Matin and even Whitney would need no translation, juste pour la posture.
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