High life
Goodbye to all that
Taki
actually happened, and that Andreas Papandreou and his socialist band had taken a drubbing at the polls. The only thing I regret is that my father is not alive to see his close friend, Costa Mitsotakis, be sworn in as prime minister. But as my ancestor Takus said about 2500 years ago, `Life is a bitch (and then you marry one)'. Happiness also is not having to write about the socialists any more, and I can now apologise to readers for having bored them for as long as I have with my Papandreou obsession. I truly hope this is the last time I mention the ghastly Andreas's name, except for when and if he goes to do a Taki, preferably in the island of Corfu, where the Olive Republic's worst prison is located.
Needless to say, this has been a hell of a week. It started for me on Thursday, when I flew to London for the goodbye party for James Knox, and the father of the year, Charles Moore. Later that evening I ended up with the two ex-sainted ones, as well as two ex-girlfriends, in Annabel's of course, plus a commie pinko, and the best-looking doctor I've ever seen, Miss Emma Wil- liams. The reason I give her name is because although I swore last week never to write an R and J letter again, I got awfully close to doing it that evening to the good doctor. (Happiness is being hit by the only car on a desert island, and Miss Williams being the only doctor around).
Much later on, I discussed future strategy with the ex-king of pork-bellies, Christopher Gilmour, the man who is to restaurants what Heinz Guderian was to Panzer commanders. Christo and I are going into business together, which is a bit like Lord Hanson, Sir James Goldsmith and Lord Yacob Rothschild joining forces, but -= again as my ancestor Takus said 'Why be weak when you can be strong?'
And speaking of Rothschild, I couldn't help overhearing a conversation on the airplane while on my way to London for the party. There were two gentlemen on the aisle next to me, one looking more of one than the other — gent that is. The lesser-looking gent was from Eastern Europe, or so I surmised from his accent, the more-of-a-gent was probably a Roths- child because his neighbour kept referring to him as `Monsieur le baron.'
Although it was early in the morning and I was trying to sleep, I couldn't help overhearing because the lesser one was very loud. The subject he was loud about was money, but then suddenly I realised it was more than that. In fact the lesser one was trying, however gently, to ingratiate his family with Monsieur le baron. Being Greek, I realised immediately what the lesser one was up to: get the baron to .marry his daughter. (It happens daily in the Olive Republic).
So, just before we landed, Monsieur le baron finally turned to the subject: 'Et comment va votre fille?', he asked the lesser one. And that is when I heard probably the sweetest if not smartest thing I've ever heard a father say: 'Belle comme Venus,' he cried. `Riche comme Croesus,' he continued. 'Innocent comme Dreyfus,' he finished with.
If the baron doesn't •marry the lesser one's daughter after that, I'll turn into a socialist and vote Kinnock.
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