High life
Blowing up the good times
Taki
Last Tuesday, those of my fellow Greeks who watch morning television, woke up to the sight of my beautiful yacht Bushido just after it had been blown up by an explosion. Simo, one of the four crew, had earlier seen two people in frogmen gear tear away on a speedboat. The police, as they say, are investigating.
The boat was moored in Piraeus, the explosion having taken place while every- one was asleep. The Maigret who reported the incident announced that it was the work of November 17, the terrorist group. I'm not so sure.
When my father was alive, the police had raided a terrorist safe house and had dis- covered a list of names. Daddy's was the top name on it. I rang up Gianni Agnelli and in no time an armoured Fiat was sent round. After my father's death five years ago this month, I got rid of the car and most of the security personnel. The main point being I did not wish to be Salman Rushdie — as ridiculous a sight as there is west of Teheran, as far as I'm concerned. (Oh yes, I almost forgot. Unlike 'Simon' Rushdie, I was paying for every bit of my own security.) Everything went hunky-dory until Tues- day. Well, not exactly. There was a mysteri- ous explosion that gutted my old flat in Egerton Gardens, one that was not insured due to me having been a guest of her Majesty's at the time, ten years ago. The fuzz blamed the boiler. Except for these two incidents my life has been an island of tranquillity in a sea of trouble. The reason I'm not 100 per cent sure it's the November 17 bunch, is this: they have yet to miss any of their targets. They've killed 24 people and have never been caught. American diplomats, CIA bureau chiefs, publishers, bankers, tycoons, they've got all those they've targeted unto now. So why is the poor little Greek boy still around to write this? After all, I was there only last week, sleeping in the very spot and in the very cabin those two nice guys blew up on Tuesday. Could their informants get it so wrong? I doubt it. Mind you, I am not the most popular of Hellenes, due to my writing against the socialist crooks who are at present running the place. All the people who have been murdered in cold blood by the November 17 have been killed while an Ali Baban- dreou government has been in office. Cops familiar with terrorism somehow get sent to the provinces whenever Ali Baba and his merry band get back in power.
What troubles me with this scenario is that I must be a very small fish. After all, why kill editors and public servants and only blow up a capitalist's tool? Like papa Hemmingway, my s—t detector, tells me its not a terrorist act. 17 November doesn't bomb capitalists' tools, it bombs capitalists. This is a criminal act.
Actually I am quite angry and sad. The Bushido was a wonderful boat I inherited from my father. It was a classic cruiser, with three engines giving 4,500 horsepower, enabling me to do 35 knots. But she looked like a boat, not a fridge, the way these modern gin palaces do. She had a beautiful interior in soft colours, four double cabins and bathrooms, she was blue and was 86 feet long. Best of all, I had really enjoyed myself on her, partying non-stop all over the place, and the crew was as good as the boat. I shall probably re-build her, or start a sailing boat from scratch.
Insurance doesn't cover terrorist acts, so the whole thing comes out of my pocket. What troubles me rather more, I had plans to take some rather interesting female forms on her come September. Having spent time on Bushido, I refuse to charter. It is like public transport. But I did have the most wonderful week on her last week, cruising for more than 500 miles and in the best of company. Whoever put the bomb cannot undo that, or the 20 years of gra- cious living and outrageous fun on board her. So take that, assholes.
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