High life
Too many friends
Taki
Gstaad When the good Dr Johnson said that when a man was tired of London he was tired of life, he hadn't thought of the pre- sent motley bunch of Labourites coming to power: Robin Cook, John Prescott, Jack Straw ... and that gruesome 'Hillary' Blair. It is going to be very tiresome watching these pompous plebs strutting before the cameras for the next five years. Far worse is the fact that they are coming to power just as the London season is starting. Oy veh, what a disaster!
Mind you, the poor little Greek boy was already starting to get tired of London. Too dirty, too many lager louts, too many black muggers, too much tabloid journal- ism, too many Guardian readers, too many government subsidies, too much malice, too much sexual freedom, too big a tax- financed public sector, too much whinge- ing, too many soundbites by politicians, too many journalists inventing stories, too much anti-Establishment ... I could go on forever.
When and what started the rot? Dunno. I imagine the press had a lot to do with it, it always does. The Church hasn't helped either. The monarchy, ditto. Its advisers and courtiers have a hell of a lot to answer for.
So why stay in London? Easy. By a coin- cidence I recently discovered that the poor little Greek boy has many friends. It may I'm afraid it won't do. Nowhere does it overstep the bounds of decency.' sound naive and self-serving, but it is nev- ertheless true. An American friend asked Lord Hanson to write a good reference on my behalf — I am applying for a barman job in a New York strip club — and the good Lord responded with what is com- monly known as overkill. Apparently, I am a cross between Ivanhoe, General Patton, Mother Theresa and some other divine fig- ures I dare not mention in print in case I offend our more religious readers, Lord Hanson asked others to write in and they did.
To a man, they all agreed that my name was the easiest Greek name to pronounce. For a poor little jailbird, this was rare praise indeed. I was very touched by the numbers who wrote in. So, to hell with moving to the Big Cuckoo (Switzerland) I told myself. Stay in London, get mugged, watch John Prescott on the telly and puke, read lies about yourself in tabloids, breathe unbreathable air, witness non-stop envy by odious left-wingers . whatever, but at least you're among friends.
Needless to say, I am sad to see Labour coming in — as it will, and I'm willing to bet my last devalued drachma on it — but the writing has been on the wall since April 1992. It was at our benevolent proprietor's election night party at the Savoy when the Tories last laughed. I remember Paul John- son announcing a Tory victory long before anything came through on the telly. 'How do you know?' I asked the sage. 'I just saw John Mortimer having two lobsters, and it's always a good sign when socialists gorge themselves — it means they'll be out of power a while longer,' answered the great man. And, as always, he was right. It was also a great evening, one that went on for two nights running. The 1987 election night was even better. I was a guest of Sir James Goldsmith at Cliveden. Need I say more? We knew we couldn't lose and concentrated on picking up young women, rather than listening to the obviously upset blow-dry types working for the BBC and Independent Television. Of course 1983 was rubbing-in time. Like everyone else of my political persuasion, I knew that even if Mrs T shot herself in the foot daily, Foot could not win, so I gave a blast chez moi and rang friends in England every hour or so. The only one crying over his beer was Oliver Gilmour, a soi-disant Tory. I thought it rather strange. They say the first time is always the sweetest, and in 1979 it was. I was in the Big Olive on a dirty weekend, caught in fla- grante by my mother who proceeded to give me a lecture on monogamy. (My answer was monogamy for men is a modernist invention, knowing old mama hates every- thing that is modern. It didn't work.) Then the news came in and everyone started to celebrate. We've had a good run and now it's payback time. I am a man and I can take it. I only wish those Labour suits were a bit more presentable. Gott im Himmel, imagine if they start coming to Annabel's.
Previous page
