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"Sex?" mused Lord Harlech, 47. "That's a difficult area. What's acceptable varies from generation to generation." As the new president of Britain's Film Censorship Board, the urbane, uncensorious diplomat is himself unimpeachably acceptable—despite a confessed fondness for horror movies. Educated at Eton and Oxford, he succeeded to his father's title last year while, under his more familiar name, Sir David Ormsby Gore, he was Britain's Ambassador to the U.S. "I am prepared," he says dutifully, "to go and see any sort of film."
It was a great vacation and all that, but the young lady, known to her Secret Service protectors by the code name "Velvet," had just about enough of digging in Arizona Indian ruins, floating down rivers on rafts and paddling all day through the wilderness lakes of northern Minnesota. In short, Lynda Bird Johnson, 21, had seen America first, and when she ended the seven-week Western tour, she exclaimed to a Minnesota reporter, "Why, your flies are worse than our Texas flies!" Then she ordered an air-conditioned car to pack her to the nearest outpost of civilization.
Jordan's volatile, hirsute King Hussein, 30, who fences with a scimitar, flies with abandon, and drives with a lead foot, came flashing onto France's Côte d'Azur for a ten-day romp, picked up yet another hair-raising diversion—something called "ascensional parachuting," or "Go Fly a King." It goes like this: the King straps on a special parachute pack, grabs the speedboat towline, skis on his bare feet up to 40 m.p.h., and then POP! Out goes the parachute, up goes the King sailing over the Mediterranean, into which he eventually plunges. He emerges from the flight looking as if the next royal hobby is going to be sumo wrestling.