For a few lousy bcnks
If sex is about inoculating oneself against desire, I simply cannot understand why Sir Anthony Buck married that soi-disant Spanish woman whom I have never heard speak a word of Don Juan's language. Sir Peter Harding, I do understand. He bonked her and c'est tout. Then she bonked him right back in the newspapers. It is called the screwing you get for the screwing you got. Harding deserved better. England is becoming almost as ridiculous a country as the United States, where men are being hunted down by vengeful women, and a lit- tle bit on the side is a worse crime than betraying one's country or dodging the draft.
For a Greek, this is amazing. Here is this grotesque figure of Edwina Currie, the symbol of cheapness, trying to legitimise paedophilia because she knows how strong the queer lobby is, and her reward will be a European Parliament seat, while poor Harding has to resign for a few lousy bonks. There is something very wrong here. Mind you, the ghastly Currie has won first prize in every dog show she's entered her- self.
This `Bienvenida' woman, needless to say, I've seen around the nightclub circuit. Although a gentleman should never speak ill of a lady, let's just say she's no lady. In fact, I'm not sure if Mabel or Rita would allow her into the Annabel's 'ladies'.
And speaking of devious women, an American billionaire by the name of Bill Koch — pronounced coke, with no pun intended — is financing a team of women to race in next year's America's Cup quali- fications off San Diego. This is penile dementia of the nth degree, the last rattle of a scared and decadent American mer- cantile class. Koch and I have lots of friends in common, and from what I could see the one time I attended one of his par- ties, he's a hell of a fellow, but there's obvi- ously something very• wrong here, too. Unless, of course, he wants to humiliate them. There is no way women can sail head to head against men, even if, as Koch insists, strength is playing a part in only 2 per cent of the equation. I sailed with my father in the past, and believe you me, cof- fee grinders are no joke. Nor is hoisting up a sail when it's blowing. Except, of course, if it's the publicity the event will generate, which, knowing the way of the world, it will.
Otherwise, things are not so hunky dory. In sympathy with my Low Life colleague, I went and got sick in Gstaad. So sick, in fact, my doctor told me that if I continue to drink I shall be joining that great karate dojo in the sky before the year 2000 rolls around. Worse, I hit a snow wall at speed in a thick fog and tore a shoulder muscle. Unfortunately it's the right one, so now there's no drinking, and in my misery, I can't even play with myself. This week I go back to Saanen and a wonderful Palestini- an doctor who has been looking after me. (Yes, he's one of the few the settlers have not shot.) Saanen is a small village next to Gstaad. Its hospital is cleaner than Annabel's, arid the place is built like a chalet, a pre-requisite for someone as superstitious as yours truly. Big city hospi- tals may enjoy better reputations, but I'll take Saanen any day. One looks out on the beautiful scenery and the ugliest thing one sees is some melting snow. There are cows and farmers, children going to school, peo- ple sunning themselves and soldiers march- ing. (Yes, it's that time of year in good old Helvetia.) There is no violent crime, no fla- grant drug use, no homelessness. Surely it is a better place to be ill in than some high tech spot named after some royal. Next week I will let you know how it all went, but in the meantime, a bottle of retsina to the reader who can guess exactly what per- centage of my liver is still functioning.