High life
Stop press
Taki
Ifind it extraordinary to say the least that the Egyptian billionaire shopkeeper Mohammed Al-Fayed can threaten to do a number on Rupert Murdoch's upmarket news organs, and quicker than you can say Open Sesame have the Aussie's finest turn into quivering wrecks. In fact, Ali Baba has nothing on Ali Fayed 0./here pulling a fast one is concerned.
For any of you who have not closely followed Mohammed's methodical take- over of most things British, Ali took umbrage when an article appeared in the 'Sunday Times reporting the private allega- tions of one of the British team restoring the Paris villa of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, now on a long lease to the shopkeeper. The allegation was that Mohammed was guilty of 'wanton destruc- tion', something I — having seen what he did to the Paris Ritz — personally doubt. What I do not doubt, however, is the immorality of Ali's counter-attack. He demanded a ban on the article, and failing that, an apology. Having got neither, he withdrew millions of pounds of Harrods advertising moolah from News Interna- tional. The result was easy to guess. The allegations were instantly withdrawn by the lady who made them, although libel laws prevent me from guessing further as to what really transpired.
Mind you, I suppose it is the right of anyone living in a free society to pull advertising lolly at their pleasure, but this case is so blatant it stinks all the way to Mecca. Applying censorship is the status quo in the Soviet Union, its satellites, and in the Third World, and in a subtler form it works in the Olive Republic, but in the Britain of Mrs Thatcher it is almost unique.
The only other rich man I know who tried it successfully was old Charlie Clore — Sir Charles Clore to you Brits — now minding his shoe stores in the sauna-like place below. Old Charlie used to cut off all Sears Holding advertising funds (Self- ridge's, half the shoe stores in the country, hundreds of betting shops) whenever any hack mentioned the hookers he frequented with the regularity of a Jeff Bernard at the Coach and Horses. Needless to say, it worked so well that when he was knighted most people thought it was for celibacy.
I, of course, knew better. Fortunately, our tastes were not the same. I prefer sweet young things and only like hookers at a pinch, no pun intended. Clore, being far smarter and more wise, knew that a good hooker is worth ten debs. He also knew how to survive. The last time I saw him was in Deauville, about ten years ago, I believe. In the casino (where else?) I was punting with Aspinall and Gordon White, and watching Stavro Niarchos wiping the floor with all corners at chemin de fer, when an over-excited Arab lost a big hand and fired a shot at the ceiling.
Everyone who was anyone ran for cover except for Aspers and Sir Gordie, but soon things were back to normal, although Niarchos had taken a powder with the loot. The other big winner was also missing. Two or three hours later I happened to be in the lavatory by myself when I thought I heard someone breathing rather hard. Although I could see no one in the stalls, I decided to investigate and began to peer over each one. That is when I found out why the second biggest winner had called it a day. Sitting cross-legged in a yoga posi- tion was Sir Charles, black tie and all, despite the fact that enough time had elapsed to have survived a nuclear attack.
Old Charlie was a zealous Zionist, and the man who fired the shot was an Arab, but I did think he carried safety precau- tions to an absurd degree. And speaking of Zionism, were any other nation than Israel to behave as it has, the United States would have landed the Marines by now. On the contrary, Uncle Sam will continue to pay 1,400 smackers per Israeli each and every year, in order to have Shamir and Rabin act like the Kray twins, while Mossad spies on the very government that subsidises Israel. In fact, I am willing to bet my last shekel that within one month the ICrays will have pulled an Al-Fayed on the Western press.
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