Marina madness Taki On board SIY Bushido T changed my
mind about going to Capri. I Apparently no heterosexuals are allowed on the island during August, so I turned to starboard and headed for Sardinia. The last time I was there I was in my early fifties, my children were in school, and I was running after someone who is now in her late forties. Oh and, yes, I almost forgot, the Sardinian waters were as clean and clear as they get. No longer. The first mega-monster I crossed was the ghastly Abramovich stink pot, a humungous bad-taster whose personality reflects that of its Russian owner. No wonder the Sardinian sea now resembles Blackpool.
Mind you, not all stink pots are the same. The Virginian, owned by that Bamford fellow, has gracious lines for a modern megayacht, and, from looking at it, its owner is obviously a gent. The rest, however, fugget-aboutit. Sardinia is cool because of the winds. Ernesto Bertarelli, the current holder of the America's Cup, chose to defend his title, and successfully at that, in Valencia, but in my opinion Sardinia would have made a more exciting venue. Racing under light winds gives technology the upper hand, and the slightest mistake counts as major, whereas under strong ones the human element kicks in.
The Porto Cervo Yacht Club sponsors racing almost year round, and this year it celebrated its 40th anniversary. This is a good club with which the Gstaad Yacht Club enjoys reciprocal privileges, although I stayed anchored in a bay and never made it to port. I used to love tying up and chatting people up while drinking on board. That was back in the good old days when one used to know the majority of yacht owners. Marinas were not crowded, there was no loud music, and generators were turned off at dusk. Today's behemoths make marina life as claustrophobic as being in jail. Rude Russians throw cigarettes overboard, oblivious to where they land, and even ruder bodyguards patrol the quays as if guarding the gulag. Better to stay out in the open, watching the thin line of low cliffs, the froth of waves breaking over low rocks, and listening to the blast of tango music. I know it's a rough life, but what the hell? Owning a large boat is a very expensive business. Having vulgarians intrude on one's life makes the expense unacceptable. Hence I stay away. Sartre, of course, was right. Hell is other people, but at the time he said it I used to think of him as a baddie. Boy, was I ever wrong and the cross-eyed one right.
Last week I promised you that I would publish my list of steps George W. Bush needs to take in order to save his moribund presidency. I have not gone back on my word, just put it off for a week because of something that suddenly came up and rang a hell of a bell in the back of my mind. Libel laws prevent me from mentioning any names, and in any case it is pure speculation on my part. Here it goes. Investigators are trying to trace the internet punters who triggered a £3.5 million flurry of betting on an obscure tennis match between the world's number 4, Nikolay Davydenko, and the Argentinian Martin Arguello, ranked number 82. This took place in Poland — my favourite country — and investigators were alerted after Davydenko cruised through the first set only for the money to pour in favouring Arguello before the second set began. The Argie won the match after the Russian retired following a foot injury while 2-1 down in the third and deciding set. The price on Davydenko started to move before the injury became apparent.
Well, that's what separates the men from the mugs. While in St Tropez I spoke at length about the game with a man who not only manufactures most of the equipment of tennis, but is also actively involved in the game and is on first-name terms with the stars. (He is also a very good player and athlete himself.) He told me about a certain extremely rich Brit who bets on tennis matches, no matter how obscure or lowlevel, and the support group he obviously has engaged in order to bet so much in so many different matches. To be fair, this Brit bets on other sports too, but mainly tennis, or so I think my friend said. I did not pay attention at the time because I don't like the Brit, from the sound of him, not that I ever met the slob. (He has a very large and ugly yacht.) When I read the paper last week, it was the bells are ringing time.
When I was on the circuit 50 years ago, people did not bet on tennis. But we in the locker room knew who was hurting, who was slumping and who was playing over their heads. Nowadays players don't mix, hence only their entourage, their trainers, nutritionists, strength coaches and so on know what's really going on. The Brit, if he is the one, obviously got on to someone who knew Davydenko was hurt, and presto. I could, of course, be totally off base, too, but when was the last time the poor little Greek boy got it wrong? (Please don't bother to answer this one.) Well, not as wrong as the ones who let Faisal Wangita, Idi Amin's son, into the country, which in turn led to the murder of an 18-year-old. They, too, deserve to be punished.
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