High life
Boo, Boris
Taki
o, this is how it ends. One telephone call from the new editor and it's all over. Twenty-two years of writing in this space wind up with the following dreaded words: `You're sacked.' This is my last column.
Now, as everyone in the scribbling busi- ness knows, being hired means eventually being fired. I am not a crybaby, but 22 years is a hell of a long time to be terminat- ed with a terse telephone message. Boris Johnson, the new 35-year-old Old Etonian editor, did not exactly mince his words. His father, Frank Johnson, the outgoing editor, as well as his uncle Paul would have behaved better, I am sure. But such are the joys of today's youth. Sacking an old warhorse like myself without even one sorry.
When I first began this column Callaghan was prime minister, Britain was the sick man of Europe, Baroness Jay was busy breaking up the marriage of Carl Bernstein in Washington DC, people read Private Eye, the unions held everyone to ransom, Rupert Murdoch owned only the smut rags, and Robert Maxwell reigned supreme. Peter Stothard, the editor of the now-smutty Times, walked around universi- ty in a kaftan, while Alan Rusbridger, the editor of the Guardian, was busy spreading gossip around his school. Ian Hislop was still in his crib, and was known as the ugli- est baby in Europe.
Hislop has admitted in print that he peri- odically gets attacked in the street by per- fect strangers. Although I do not believe in random violence, I do sympathise with the attackers. Hislop is a dwarfish Quasimodo who scares not only the horses, but also ladies from polite society and especially children. He should not be permitted out- doors during sunny days and school holi- days.
Two's company, three's a cult!' Hislop, or Slopout, as he's known in the trade, Rusbridger and Stothard are the ones who did me in. They put tremendous pressure on young Boris Johnson to sack me, and the Old Etonian caved in. I first met Boris when I debated at the Oxford Union. I believe he was president of it, just as he was head boy at Eton. Back then I could not have imagined that this young talent would one day give in to the lefty, envious scum that are Hislop, Rusbridger and the kaftan-wearer. In the immortal words of President Nixon, you will no longer have the poor little Greek boy to kick around any more. I am going to take a long holiday, re-subscribe to The Spectator, and concentrate all my energies on my `Top Drawer', the section of the New York Press that has far more readers than Tina Brown's celebrity ass-wipe, and is required reading by everyone in the Big Bagel who knows the difference between monarchy and monorchism.
Oh, how I shall miss the dear old Speccie. How I shall miss the fun I've had all these years libelling the phonies. Boo, Boris, how could you surrender to the smut mer- chants? King Agamemnon sacrificed his daughter Iphigenia for a favourable wind when sailing to punish the Trojans. King Boris has sacrificed the poor little Greek boy for favourable comments from the scummiest trio since Lenny Bruce dined alone. What shame.
This is the bad news. The good is that I haven't been sacked at all, despite the pres- sure the scummy left has put on the sainted editor. You will be reading Taki for a while yet. Bravo, Boris. From this day forward he will be known as Thermopylae Boris. Boris Johnson is the second Johnson, fourth Old Etonian and fifth editor I've written for. I've survived five editors and four owners, a fact that must not best please the repellent troika. What these low-lifers need to understand is that their talents lie else- where. They can target young people like Torn Parker Bowles, honeytrap innocent athletes like Lawrence Dallaglio, libel Michael Ashcroft, but they cannot begin to sow seeds of dissension among The Tele- graph Group. Plus, they're ignorant.
Our sainted owner, Conrad Black, is my first cousin from my mother's side, and the Blacks are not known for sacking their cousins. His wife, Barbara Amiel Black, is also a cousin from her Greek Orthodox side. So take it from me, boys. Go back to stealing dustbins from each other while attempting to unearth embarrassing mate- rial. Let us scholars and gentlemen of The Telegraph Group get on with our job to inform the public with the facts. The poor little Greek boy will one day fulfill your dreams and sack himself, but not quite yet. I will quit when the newest Palazzo Taki, Pinochet rather, will be ready, a Shangri-La obviously none of you troglodytes will ever see from inside. Paul, Frank and Boris Johnson, of course, have permanently reserved suites already.
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