High life
Place your bets
Taki
It is a terrible thing to confess, but I was rather flattered to be 11 to one to marry the Princess of Wales, according to the Tatler this month. For one, it goes to show that an ex-con and never-say-die womanis- er like me can still be considered as a can- didate for the hand of the world's most famous woman. We Greeks are known to be good family men, to take care of our women, spoil them rotten, allow them to shop until they drop; and we are even kind and charitable to our children and stepchil- dren, an unheard of phenomenon in Eng- land. But before I go on about the tempestuous Taki-Diana marriage to be, a few words against the other candidates Tatler listed along with yours truly.
John Kennedy Jr may be very handsome and the son of a martyred president of the United States, but he's got some very heavy baggage — like a pig of a first cousin named Joe, who last week made an impas- sioned speech in Washington denouncing what he called the British Government's shameful record on human rights in North- ern Ireland. Much worse, the pig and his uncle Ted have not uttered a word after the outrage at Warrington, which to a sim- ple man like me means that killing small children is politics as usual for the Kennedys. Diana would be better off get- ting engaged to a serial killer than to a Kennedy.
Prince Pierre d'Arenberg I do not know, but I knew both his parents very well. The trouble is he's half French and, as everyone knows, the only good Frenchman is Michel Deon, the Academician living in Ireland. Still, d'Arenberg is jet-setty enough to please the Princess, and he's loaded.
Daniel Day-Lewis is a non-starter. He is too intense, too serious about his work, too shy, as most method actors are. Why leave a serious and selfish man like Prince Charles for a serious and selfish actor like Danny boy?
Albert of Monaco looks the best bet, but he's not. The reason for this is Monte Carlo. Diana did not flee a golden cage to fly into another, wrapped in green felt. And there is always the future brother-in-law, the bodyguard who keeps knocking up Stephanie. Even Steve Wyatt sounds bet- ter, and that's saying something.
James Gilbey I have never met and, judging by his squidgy conversations, I do not wish to. He came into Di's life as a use- ful idiot when she wanted revenge against Camilla. And like most useful idiots, he's had it.
I will also skip those I do not know, peo- ple like Lords Albemarle and Ronaldshay and David Waterhouse. They sound Hoorayish, which is a good thing as far as she's concerned, but I'm not sure how good they are at throwing food. Young Giovanni Agnelli, the son of Umberto, I do know. And he's not buying. He's serious and hard working, wants to marry a young girl with- out someone else's children, and is not par- ticularly an anglophile. Agnelli is out, but Niarchos is in. Constantine Niarchos loves women with pasts, has already had one marriage annulled, and would have mar- ried a couple more times if his family hadn't stopped him. He loves staying up all night, in clubs or grand houses, and he likes rock music. He's a natural, and has 3,000 million greenbacks to boot. Although Taller made him only 33 to one for Di's hand, I make him favourite.
And speaking of favourites, my little problem is that I don't like to be Mr Diana.
'Got your nose in a book again, I see. That's for starters. Worse, if Diana got angry at Charles over Camilla, what will happen to the poor little Greek boy when she finds out about Linda, Kate, Natasha, Laura and the rest of the sweet young things I plan to pursue in the future? And I do like my privacy when I emerge from Annabel's and Tramp dead drunk at dawn. With the paparazzi on my tail it might lead me to drink. Finally, I do have a mother of my children who is slightly better born than Diana, so why change?
And, oh yes, last but not least: the Queen might make me an earl, and I'd become like Snowdon, a figure of fun where titles are concerned. The public simply wouldn't stand for it. Especially from a foreigner whose ancestors were building the Parthenon while the English were eating roots and scratching their furry parts.
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