High life
Paper tiger cub
Taki
Iam back in the Olive Republic for busi- ness, but I file this from buggers' haven, the randy island of Mykonos. Four years after my daddy's death, I'm finally getting my mini-media empire off the ground. But before the Speccie's sainted owner and Rupert Murdoch panic, mine is the San Marino of media conglomerates, and I stand as tall as Toulouse-Lautrec among paper tigers.
Speaking of paper tigers, Nick Coleridge is a hell of a man. By writing a hagiography of those who write our cheques, he has assured himself of full employment for the rest of his natural life. I haven't read the opus and don't plan to, but rumour has it that the smiling cobra has nice things to say even about fat Maxwell. I'm not surprised. Coleridge once wrote an extremely arse- licking piece about Asil Nadir, in fact went as far as calling the Turkish crook a gentle- man. Oy veh!
But back to the micro-tycoon to be. I am taking over a glossy monthly mostly read by the weaker sex, starting up a weekly a la Spectator and later on, we hope, a small production company which will produce films starring girls casted by you-know-who. This is why I'm in Mykonos perfecting my tan. A casting couch can be a scary thing for a young lady, but a tanned tycoon helps alleviate the pain.
Starting a business is as scary a thing as facing the casting couch, mind you, but for some strange reason, I ain't at all nervous. This is because I expect to lose at the start. What makes one nervous is the unknown. For example, the law that broke the lease- hold racket of the Westminsters and Cado- gans. I yelled and raved against the Shylocks who held our leases in the past, but now I realise what a fool I've been. I don't know the Westminsters and Cado- gans, but one thing is for sure: they've kept their houses in impeccable shape, and Cadogan Square where I live is absolute heaven. Now that we will get to buy our leases, I'm ready to bet my last devalued drachma that our Arab brethren will hang their underwear out to dry and our Ameri- can cousins will be throwing frisbees in the garden and playing loud rap music.
Last but certainly not least, the leasehold act goes against the whole history of con- tract law. After all, a deal is a deal, and when I signed mine I was sound of both body and mind. The clapped-out Tories suddenly tell me that I wasn't, and that the Shylocks took advantage of me. Yes, and pigs might fly. The clapped-out ones deserve to lose next time, if only for this egregiously socialist law.
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