Greek greats
Taki
As I write, the Greek football team is about to face the Czechs, by far the most talented team in Euro 2004. Win or lose, the heroic Hellenes have done the rest of us Greeks proud. It's politically incorrect to point this out, but when we beat the French team 11 white Greeks overcame six countries — four African ones, Algeria and France — which made our victory even more remarkable. The British and French empires of yesteryear now offer a great pool of talent denied to nations like Greece. A small country of ten million beat the best that Europe and Africa had to offer, and then some. I almost blubbed. What was wonderful were the Greek supporters, who with 20 minutes to go chanted the Greek national anthem non-stop in order to inspire those down on the field. `England has never gone to war over the result of a football match .. writes Rod Liddle in last week's Speccie. Wow! Greek supporters have never thrown a bottle through someone's window after a defeat. Three times wow, as far as I'm concerned.
And speaking of civilised people, a letter from a longtime Spectator reader, Mr John Braithwaite, makes me doubly proud. It is all about the simple virtues in life: good manners, courage and integrity, and I thank this particular writer-reader for his erudite letter.
Mind you, there is very little integrity left — in public life, that is. The American neocons, conmen extraordinaire, starting with Richard Perle and David Fnim, have made sure their hour is over. All that bullshit about `empire' and 'benevolent global hegemony' and Tax Americana' turned out to be horse manure, except that manure can be useful. The neocons have proved to be useful only to the enemies of the West. Mark the poor little Greek boy's words. America is not going to fight a fiveor ten-year war in Iraq. The retreat of the American empire began in Fallujah. With a $500 billion deficit, Uncle Sam does not have the moolah, or the troops, for new wars.
Bush's 'world democratic revolution' was a pipe dream. Ahmad Chalabi fed the pipe with some pretty strong angel dust, and, presto, thousands of dead later, and tens of thousands of maimed and wounded, Iraq is in an even worse state than it was before Saddam was deposed. Here is a man sentenced to 22 years of hard labour for embezzling funds from poor people in Jordan and Switzerland, yet he manages to hoodwink the Bush administration that the road to Middle East peace lies in Baghdad and — listen to this — a restored oil pipeline from Kirkuk to Haifa, one that had been inoperative since the creation of Israel in 1948. As they say in Hollywood, you couldn't make this up if you tried.
Never mind. The press really didn't mind while this pathetic charade was going on. Chalabi's spokesman here in London, a Pakistani, still frequents chic dinner parties accompanied by his American social-climbing art-dealer blonde, and no one raises a plucked eyebrow.
But enough of depressing subjects. Let's get back to real high life. As in the annual cricket match between Zac Goldsmith's house in Devon and Timmy Hanbury's Wembury team. After four years, Zac's team finally won. Just. Their secret weapon was a 30-stone Nigerian–Londoner by the name of Ade. pronounced Adee. Some of you may remember him. He was the extremely funny getaway driver in the film Snatch, the one that was too fat to get behind the wheel, and certainly unable to get out once in. Ade is as funny in life as he was in the movie. He sounds like Frank Bruno — 'You're fuckin' out, Bunter ... ' — and when he hit the ground while fielding, he literally bounced twice three or four inches off the ground.
The actual game was very dangerous. A very thick mist made it impossible to see the ball coming off the bat, and it got so bad we had to get young eyes — mine were Fred Lambton's — next to some of us oldies to yell duck. The evening, however, was a different story. Jemima Khan was there, alone and beautiful, and Zac and Sheherazade Goldsmith pulled out all the stops. A beautiful Moroccan tent, terrific food and drink inside his barn, wonderful fireworks and then — surprise, surprise — the Wurzels, a Seventies hit band of Western oldies who got the place rocking and rolling and dancing on the tables. Then came the DJ and some sexy belly dancers, and you can guess the rest. Some of us misbehaved in private, others got drunk, one beautiful girl went mad over the belly dancers and publicly misbehaved ... All in all a memorable weekend, which, as far as I'm concerned, is the crowning moment of the London high-life season. Incidentally, people like Chalabi and his ilk were not invited.
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