High life
Going for broke
Taki
was sorry to read about Lord Beaver- brook's financial problems. Back in 1962 I was billeted with Gianni Agnelli in Max Aitken's house in Cowes, and the father of the present Lord could not have made us feel more welcome. Gianni and I were there for a powerboat race, one in which my other friend, Lord Lucan, made a disas- trous start and sank his boat in full view of everyone. Twelve years later 'Lucky' Lucan scuttled yet another boat, and this time went down with it.
Beaverbrook's problems came about because of business dealings, something my father always insisted was the only way for inherited money to be lost. The trouble is that Beaverbrook did not inherit. That power- and money-mad grandfather of his did not believe in leaving it behind. In my not so humble opinion, that stinks. Charity should begin at home. And Sir Max deserved much more than he got. Unlike the draft-dodging Bill Clinton — I simply cannot believe how Americans are about to vote for this coward — and the phony quit- ter Ross Perot, Aitken was a brave fighter pilot and, almost as important, he loved and pursued women.
The other bankrupt, Kevin Maxwell, I don't feel at all sorry for. In another maga- zine recently I have written about Ghis- laine Maxwell — written being a euphemism for what the lawyers finally allowed to appear. I am not in the habit of kicking people who are down, especially women, but I do find it typically Maxwellian for Ghislaine to prance around Aspen and the Big Bagel in the company of rich white trash, while showing absolutely no shame or contrition for the fat crook's crimes. She is certainly not responsible for them, but she is rubbing it in to the pen- sioners who lost when she declares that she and her family are the only ones to have suffered.
.What I find absurd is that the lawyers will not allow me to speculate whether Robert Maxwell had squirrelled money away, how much and where. How can it be libellous for one to speculate whether a dead crook had committed yet one more crime before he died? But those skunks the lawyers always have the final word.
And speaking of skunks, Carl Icahn, a man who makes Captain Bob seem almost attractive, is in deep negotiation with the TWA pension fund administrators while he tries to sell the ailing airline. The pension fund of TWA, it seems, may suffer if Icahn is allowed to make the deal he wants. Icahn is one of the most disgusting of modern- day buccaneers: the type of guy who will always go bankrupt but never broke. Alas, he's far from even going bankrupt.
TWA was once a great company, but, given Icahn's methods, soon it will join Pan Am in that great cemetery in the sky, and that's a pity. The man who started it was a flyer, a lover, and a friend of Richard Nixon — three good things as far as I'm concerned. At the end Howard Hughes was a bit nuts, but so what? Even at his worst he was head and shoulders above the money-shufflers of today, and then some.
When late last year I decided on a whim to become a Hellenic Howard Hughes, the sainted editor asked me to write on how easy it is to lose one's money in ventures such as magazines and airlines. Being superstitious, I declined. But I also saw the light rather quickly and gave up on my ambition to be the Greek Richard Branson. And just as well. My poor dad watching from up above would freak, while the plea- sure I would give the Steve Wyatts of this world if I went broke would be on a par with what I felt when the Reds went down. Too good for them.
Jeffrey Bernard is unwell.
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