High life
Glitz-
Taki
Monte Carlo ven from a distance the French Riviera ain't what it used to be. It is now Las Vegas-sur-mer, or perhaps Beirut be- fore the you-know-what hit the fan. Mind you, the Hotel du Cap in Antibes is as splendid as ever, until one gets up close enough to see and hear the people who have invaded it. The last time I saw such a motley crew it was in a brothel for rich Americans in Havana back in 1957.
On board my boat was Mr Charles Glass, a fellow ex-jailbird, but one who was never tried or convicted; Miss Natasha Grenfell, the dutiful daughter whose en- couragement and total dedication spurred her mother, Lady St Just, to compile the haunting letters of Tennessee Williams into a wonderful book; Captain Chuck Pfeiffer, the ex-Green Beret now gone Hollywood, and Mr Talbot Speer, an American gentle- man from Baltimore known as a man of very few words. Oh yes, I almost forgot, there were also a couple of Swedish blondes, Anna and Christina, whose sur- names we never found out because we were on Christian-name terms from the start.
Bushido, the name of my little maritime toy, had sailed over from the Olive Repub- lic and was waiting for me in Monte Carlo. I had been delayed in London by a riotous party chez moi so most of my guests were already on board by the time I flew down — and broke, as it happens. Like the rubes they are, Pfeiffer and Speer had been taken by the treacherous French on their first night out. In Beaulieu of all places. The maitre d' suggested they have a bass for two pour 250 francs, but when the bill arrived they noticed that they had been charged 500 francs each. Speer contem- plated for the better part of an hour and then announced to Chuck that there was something fishy going on. 'They think we're a bunch of dumb Americans,' was the way he put it.
When they complained the maitre d' quickly let them know in no uncertain terms that they had eaten the whole fish, including the head and the tail end, which meant they had to pay full price. Like the innocents abroad that they are they paid £100 for two in a seaside bistro. Par for the course, say I, who have to pay twice as much just to tie up in a marina, water, electricity and fuel naturally being extra.
Then there was Natasha. She swam ashore to Eden Roc, saw a sign that said, 'pool 27, sea 23', decided it was cheaper to swim in the sea, and paid 250 francs as a result. The numbers on the sign were for the temperature of the water, and as the lifeguard said, one can't swim for as little as 23 francs on the Riviera even on public beaches.
Needless to say, we had a terrific time. The second night we all got very drunk and went looking for Graham Greene. But we were too out of it even to find Felix au Port, his alleged hang-out, much less the great author. Glass wrote him a note instead. On our fourth night we bought chips and started a post-prandial poker game that lasted throughout the night. Towards the dawn Chuck and I got into a fight over the Swedes — he insisted they play — and like lager louts almost came to blows. (I ripped his shirt in a rage at the idea that two dumb blondes had the right to play with men.)
By the time the veterans tennis tourna- ment began, I was a basket case, Pfeiffer had flown back to the Big Bagel and Speer had gone to Vichy for a liver rejuvenation. But myself aside, the only people I feel sorry for are my sailors. Monte Carlo is so expensive even the hookers have left town. The ones who have remained are back- packers and the post-nouveau riche from Hollywood. They must make Gerald and Sarah Murphy — the Americans who launched the Riviera in the summer— turn in their graves.
The only gents, in fact, were sailors of the Sixth Fleet, which paid a courtesy visit this week. Too bad the American comman- der didn't do what a Russian admiral had threatened to do long ago, and turn his guns on the high-risers. I guess my only hope is Alan Clark, the best minister in Mrs T's Government, and my favourite for next Prime Minister. Clark, who has a sense of history, could advise some of the pilots returning from Germany to detour south and drop their loads on this hotbed of glitz. They'd probably name him Presi- dent of France too.
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