What a sorry lot
Taki
I'm in London on my way to Cowes for the jubilee of the America's Cup. I shall be staying with my old friend Gianni Agnelli, that most charismatic of tycoons — in fact, the last tycoon. It is a funny thing, but modern-day CEOs leave a lot to be desired where personality and charisma are concerned. When I think of Jimmy Goldsmith, Lord Hanson, Gianni Agnelli, Aristotle Onassis, Jock Whitney, Bill Paley, Guy de Rothschild and others of their ilk, and compare them with today's sorry lot I want to curse the day Marc Rich was born, What a bunch of wankers. Bill Gates, Henry Kravis, Ron Perelman, Richard Branson . .. the list is long but without style or substance.
Mind you, it's not just the business world. Just look at Hollywood. Once upon a time there was Gary Cooper, tall, elegant, soft-spoken, lover of beautiful women, a real man. Now we have a midget like Tom Cruise, grungy, inarticulate and a control freak. In the literary world, ditto. Papa Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Robert Ruark, John O'Hara, Scott Fitzgerald, twofisted drinkers, hell-raisers, womanisers and stylists, as opposed to, well, you know who I mean, those soi-disant magic realists whose names are very well known but whose books remain unread. Not to mention newspaper tycoons. The Northcliffes as opposed to a pornographer like that Express fellow.
Even playboys ain't what they used to be. Rubirosa. Aly Khan, Gunter Sachs, Dado Ruspoli, Juan Capuro, the list is endless. Now we have pillow-biters posing as walkers, posing as men. Which brings me to the point I wish to make. Style is as elusive as it is because it's the opposite of pretence. A characteristic of style is that it suggests depth of character and commands attention without soliciting it. Gianni Agnelli personifies style. He is a noble-looking man with a face deeply lined by what Balzac called private defeats. Style is the most abused word in the English language. It is usually attributed to fashionable people by those not in the know. Style, however, is impossible to buy and unthinkable to learn. It is of an abstract nature. One either has it or doesn't. It is typical of the world without style in which we live that Tony Blair and his mentor, scumbag Bill Clinton, have to resort to taking orders from pollsters and image-makers in order to govern. Can you imagine Winston Churchill asking some broken-down hack whether the public would go for a landing in Normandy with the expected heavy casualties? Can you see my hero George Patton whining like that wimp Wesley Clark that he is being mistreated by the suits in Washington? Style is intense conviction. It is not having regard for spurious morality. Not respecting power. It is welcoming into one's house anyone who's likable, not anyone who's powerful or rich. Finally, any person who is authentic and does not make a conscious try at being authentic has style.
Having got that off my chest, London in August — a first for the poor little Greek, no longer a boy — is surprisingly pleasant. Restaurants are half full, traffic is light, people less stressed. I noticed very few European faces, however. On Sloane Street, in fact, Europeans were a distinct minority, the few I saw working putting up scaffolding. Perhaps it is not such a bad thing. Reading what European-looking people have done to the unfortunate Hamiltons is enough to make me go and live in Grozny for the duration. How low, cruel and malicious can the British media sink? The Hamiltons have lost everything: their job, their house, their good name, their fortune. Yet the police arrest them on a charge that wouldn't stand up if Lavrenti Beria's daughter made it against a Soviet dissident. What the hell is going on? The Daily Express even went as far as to highlight the phony charges and call the Hamiltons evil. I only hope that both the police and the gutter press pay through their youknow-what, and the quicker the better.
A loyal reader, Monte Vanton, writes to me from afar about rape. 'Imagine what would be the fate of Gone with the Wind if Rhett Butler had first approached Scarlett and, coughing politely, said, 'Excuse me Miss Scarlett, ahem, er, may I — I don't want to offend you — but, may I make love to you? I mean — er — go all the way?' In other words, permission to proceed must be obtained in writing before penetration. The Hamiltons were a mile or so away and dining with friends when the woman was supposedly raped. . even a militant feminist must admit it's most unlikely. Still, mud sticks, and the Hamiltons are stained for ever unless a colossal amount of damages is paid to remind future mud-slingers and blackmailers that people are innocent until proved guilty. Next week I will tell you about my birthday party and Cowes because in my anger I've run out of space.
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