Mediterranean blues
Taki
ThSt Tropez e meltdown of the financial markets has not been felt in this overcrowded, once-upon-a-time sleepy fishing village. Not yet, anyway. The behemoths known as superyachts that line the port are full of cigar-chomping fat men in shorts and cheap blondes in expensive stilettos and costlier bangles. Kemal Ataturk's magnificent Savona — now refurbished but fraying all around, like a woman whose facelifts have not quite succeeded — is anchored outside on the bay, chartered by a mysterious Pakistani and his brother whose claim to jet-set fame is to have spent 300,000 greenbacks in one night at the Byblos nightclub. (Like most rumours emanating from the subcontinent, I don't believe a word.) The sons of the desert are also here. A gas-guzzling stinkpot steamed up next to me in the peaceful cove where I had dropped anchor, and proceeded to disgorge from its rear end two little Mohammeds riding Neptune's nemeses, jet-skis. Up and down and all around they zoomed, making a racket that could wake up England (so likely) until one of them ran into the other raising a great cheer from Lolly and JT, as well as yours truly. Only the mother of my children stayed quiet, reprimanding us that taking pleasure at other people's discomfort was hardly a Christian thing to do. 'They're not very
Christian, either,' said Monsieur JT, stating the obvious. Alas, four Anglo-Saxon-looking galley slaves emerged from the mother ship's arsehole, rescued the two towelheads. repaired the polluting pests and off they started again. If ever I thought of Herod and prayed to him it was that afternoon.
Here's how it works: these modern Ali Babas steal their crappy countries' natural wealth, come to Europe and buy houses. horses and whores, then charter superyachts and invade the Med. They remain inside them. thank God. but the tiny terrors emerge after eating their dates and vroom, vroom, they pollute to their fat heart's content. It is a measure of our decadence and subservience to money that every Aryan-looking person on the Riviera at present works for a tawny type, cleaning up after them and at times, I presume, cleaning them up, too, if you know what I mean.
It's enough to start another Crusade, this time only as far as the South of France and Sardinia. Being a sailor used to be an honourable and gallant profession. These bloody towels have turned it into the oldest, but without the fun of sex. And it gets worse. Most of these crumbums think of themselves as Lotharios, as outrageous as it sounds. Once upon a time it was 'Come to the casbah with me', No longer. Now it's: wwant to defile your daughhhter, in my palace in Jedda,' they croak. The only thing left to say is may the fleas of a thousand camels infest their armpits.
But enough of unpleasantness. As soon as the rains came the oily types headed for Cannes and Monte Carlo casinos, leaving some room for coffee-grinding, boom-furling, and trimming, puns intended. As I write, Bush/do's steel hull is being cut somewhere in Anatolia, 300,000 janissaries working in loin cloths with original tools captured from Arab armies in flight. I am sailing to Corsica, where I used to go and worship at Napoleon's birthplace. Again, no longer. I've just read the great Paul Johnson's book on Napo — Paul knocked it off between two large books on very large subjects as a means of relaxation — and it has really pissed me off. I am now convinced that my hero was not such a great guy after all. He needlessly sacrificed his men a la Hitler, and thought of no one but himself a la Blair and Clinton. The next thing I know Paul Johnson will write a book denouncing the fact that democracy is a biological contradiction, and in the process will ruin my last unshakeable belief.
Mind you, although the stock markets are collapsing, there is always room for more spending. Last week in Somerset House swells paid £5,000 per person to attend a charity do, for a very good cause for both donors and takers. The former get to sit with Prince Charles, Arkie Busson and Lord Rothschild, the latter receive the benefit of those paying and climbing.
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