High life
Waiting for Zorba
Taki
Imissed the Cartier Polo International because of drunkenness and debauchery, and Amabel Lindsay's bash because of business commitments in the Olive Repub- lic. There I was about to fly out from the Big Olive three hours before Lady Ama- bel's party, when a Zorba-like Greek walked into my office and made me an offer for which I simply got down on my knees and accepted with gratitude.
Being a playboy, my first thought was that if I missed the blast I would at least make him pay for it. 'How about a 10 per cent down payment?' was the way I put it. `Certainly,' was the way he put it, 'but as I have no cheque-book with me, may I meet with you tomorrow afternoon and close the deal?' Which meant goodbye Amabel and hello loneliness in Athens for one more night, as all my sweet young things were already on their way to the airport.
Mind you, even a bum like me will skip a party for a large amount of moolah, so I began to drink with my two closest execu- tives in anticipation of swimming in green paper the next day.
Then a few ladies of the night appeared, and the next thing I knew my closest advis- ers were telling me to shower and get my act together because Zorba was about to arrive and enrich me beyond belief. I did as I was told, and then waited and waited and waited. Alas, he turned out to be Godot, and I an old fool, and for once I hoped the plane I caught immediately would go down, and I would be taught a final lesson. Never believe it when a man suddenly appears and offers to make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. All that really happens is that you miss a very good party — c'est tout.
The Cartier Polo International was a dif- ferent story altogether. I was really looking forward to it — especially after last year's fiasco, when I was caught double-dealing and had to buy a car for the injured party as a result — but in some ways I was glad I was too drunk to attend. First, because the week before I had fallen asleep on the sun- deck of my boat and, when I woke up, I was two shades darker than Sidney Poitier. Now there's nothing wrong with Sidney far from it — but as there is already a cer- tain prejudice against extremely suntanned Euro-poseurs, a budding press tycoon like myself would not be taken very seriously by the Nigel Dempsters and Ross Bensons of this world if I came in looking like Arch- bishop Tutu.
The other reason I was happy to be drunk was that, had I not been, I would have done something about that awful Richard (Gerbil) Gere and his terrible manners. It seems he demanded that the paparazzi be thrown out of the tent, to which I can only paraphrase E.M. Forster and state that if I had to choose between Richard Gere or a paparazzo being thrown out, I would chuck out Gere. After all, by throwing Mr Gere out we would get to keep Mrs Gere, better known as Cindy Crawford, a beautiful woman much too good for any Hollywood type.
I don't know what it is about Hollywood that makes me Orlando Furioso, except that 99 per cent of it is crude, crass and cretinous. When the Hollywood types went
into the royal tent, even Ron Ferguson left the premises. The major is no stranger to sleaze, and his departure says it all. Still, the best remark has to be Goldie Hawn's, who said she had a polo field behind her house in Hollywood. She meant water- polo, I am sure .
Otherwise everything is hunky-dory. I have been given an ultimatum by a budding Tinseltown star, another one by the mother of my children and a third one by the National Bank of Greece.
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