High life
The man who shot Hambro
Talc'
The Tories made an astute move when they appointed Charles Hambro as their treasurer. Although I've never met him, the banker owes his life to the Theodoracopu- los family, a fact I hope he will not soon forget. I say this because back in 1981 my elder brother mistook Hambro for a pheas- ant and shot him repeatedly. Being a lousy shot, however, my brother only managed to graze him, yet witnesses still talk about the amount of banking blood that was spilled.
I wrote what I thought to be something funny at the time, but my brother Harry took it very badly. In fact, he acted as if it was I who had shot Hambro, and went so far as to ask my father to cut me off. Need- less to say, daddy did nothing of the kind. He realised there was no family disloyalty involved in what I had written — just some innocent poking of fun at someone who at times tends to take himself seriously — and I continued to enjoy the style my father had accustomed me to.
Although I love my older brother, he and I will never get along. He is a bully and, worse, respectable — a double whammy as far as I'm concerned. I've thought about him and the Hambro shooting recently because I am about to separate from him shipping-wise. It is a lousy time to be going it alone, what with all these damn Cassan- dras announcing the end is near because some tanker leaked oil on a few ducks. I see that even Prince Charles is planning to crusade for the ducks against us poor tanker-owners (which surely means we may just stand a chance).
One needs 100 million greenbacks to build a new tanker that the smiling wallet- lifters who run environmental matters in America would be happy with. At that price, we would have to charge a $60,000 per day charter for our ships — instead of the $15,000 a day we get now. Which means no one can afford to build new ships and stay in business. Last week at Christo- pher's I got into an argument with Tracy Worcester over the laws imposed on us by those bald-faced thieves in Washington's panelled offices. She worried about the fish. I said 'F— the fish, I care about my sailors keeping their jobs.' The Mar- chioness's friends are putting people out of work but aren't hurting me a bit. I plan to sell out and take the moolah, but my poor sailors have no such option. But before I do, or after, rather, I hope some of my boys pay a visit to those breast-beating xeno- phobes who have done to shipping what Becky Few Blandford has done to the house of Marlborough.
And speaking of that pest, never has a man got it more right than when the Duke of Marlborough called his daughter-in-law a scrubber. I'd rather be raped by a Sene- galese leper than have Few Blandford spilling the beans. What surprises me is that people are surprised. What did they expect from an old Paddy McNally flame. Class? Grace? Discretion? Loyalty?
Of course not. These traits are alien to the Verbier chalet set, a set which looks upon Fergie as a role model. Personally, while reading Few-Bucks's revelations in the Mail, I laughed out loud when this Becky woman accused Annabel Heseltine of betraying her. What did she expect from the daughter of Judas Iscariot? Jamie Blandford was a fool to have done what he did, and I don't mean the drugs. I mean to marry the person he did. Spilling the beans for profit is worse than drug-taking. One only hurts oneself with the latter.
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