High life
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Taki
Let me quote you a passage from a book of a second world war battle by Antony Beevor:
The Greek garrisons on the Metaxas line fought with great tenacity. The German 5th Mountain Division, which later formed half the invasion force for Crete, was repulsed in the Rupel Pass despite strongest air support and sustained considerable casualties'. But the line was eventually broken by the 6th Mountain Division. One garrison fought so bravely that the Germans allowed the defenders to march out with their weapons and saluted them.
Pretty good, wouldn't you say? A bunch of under-armed, ill-equipped, badly clothed and hardly fed Greek boys holding out longer than the whole bloody French army had done the summer before. Not to mention the ludicrous Belgians and the fleetfooted Dutch. My mother's oldest brother, Fvangelos Miropoulos, long-time Greek and Balkan champion in the 110 and 400 metre hurdles, and Olympic competitor in 1932 and 1936, marched out leading his platoon and ran into a German officer by the name of Trosbach, who had held the world record in the hurdles but had been beaten by Miropoulos in Athens. My uncle did not recognise him, but Trosbach did recognise my uncle, According to my uncle — now running the hurdles up above — the German was visibly moved and almost in tears. Miropoulos was fighting alongside Otto Simitsek, a naturalised Greek who was the national track and field coach. They were offered a ride and provisions by Trosbach but had to refuse. They never saw him again.
I don't know why I bring this up, probably because of all the anti-German hysteria involving the unspeakable World Cup. Some German haters cast the kraut goalkeeper as a tank commander. I ask, what is wrong with being a tank commander? There are countless instances of British officers signalling to the enemy — especially in the desert — their appreciation of a battle gallantly and fairly fought. Tank commanders, especially of the Prussian upperclass persuasion, were the noblest of the fighting breed, and no one was nobler and more gallant in battle than Hasso von Manteuffel. Nazis and other criminals, whom know-nothings confuse with anyone German, did not lead men into battle; they
stayed behind and murdered the innocent. I'll take noble German tank commanders as fighters over anyone. and that includes the great George Patton's 3rd army. But back to the present. And yet another gallant defeat, this time in cricket.
It was Badminton village vs the Marquess of Worcester's team, the latter a strange group consisting of two Greeks, a Persian, Mark Shand with his elephant (non-playing), a poker-player named Machine, the English Lothario and Hemingway fan Ben Elliot, Lord John (the music man) Somerset, John Parry . . you get the picture. We batted first and did a Rommel. (Strong start, weak finish.) Shariah Bachtiar and Mark Shand had half centuries each, although Ben Elliot was the first one to score — the night before, that is. Despite a Thermopylae-like speech, before we took the field, by Bunter. our Fiihrer, my English teammates fielded as if they were Belgians facing the Wehrmacht. (I dislocated my thumb and have bruises all over from throwing my aging body around, but to no avail.) Down we went like good sports, which is more than you can say about those ghastly oiks who have been cheering for Tim and Greg as if their opponents were mass murderers. My God, whatever happened to good sportsmanship in tennis, particularly at Wimbledon?
Badminton is a hell of a place, and there was a wonderful party for the young the night before the cricket. But like two years ago at Highgrove, I am not at liberty to write about who was there and what went on, except to say the hacks would sell their backsides to a Transylvanian anthropoid ape if only they could have had access for even a minute. Mind you, it's been a hell of a lot of fun since I landed in Blighty three weeks ago. The only regret was missing Johnny Gold's 70th birthday bash due to injury to the brain cells from alcohol. I heard that Roger Moore, although unaware that he was expected to speak, showed himself a real trooper and came up with a gem of a speech. The next night, having recovered completely, I went to an intimate little dinner at Lord and Lady Black's for ... 60! It was the closest thing to a Noel Coward evening, with the best cabaret the poor little Greek boy has ever seen. Good things come in pairs, they say, and at my benevolent proprietor's humble little home I ran into David Furnish, accompanying Liz Hurley.
Last year I had libelled David because I had believed a story that appeared in the Big Bagel Times. He could have but did not sue or demand an apology. I gave him a wholehearted one that night, and he graciously not only accepted it, he also sent me a nice present the next day. See, good things happen when one is nice, and from now on I swear I'll be nice to everyone except British oiks, all politicians, all Hollywood types, most intellectuals, all race hustlers, all phony left-wingers, all Guardian women and Guardian readers . . . oh, furgedaboudit.
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