High life
Got any good..
Taki
The greatest Greek writer since Aris- tophanes did no better than old Charlie upon reaching Hades's goal line. 'Bloody jellyfish,' would have been my last two words had not the Almighty made sure to pump that extra cubic centimetre of blood through my coronary artery. A post- humous downer if, ever there was one.
But not to worry. As soon as I get hold of Jeff Nut of Africa') Bernard, I promise to come up with some better lines. Jeff, as we all know, has been holding dress rehearsals for years, and gossip has it that his exit line will be superior to those of Wilde, Voltaire, and Barrymore put together. After all, practice makes perfect, and no one has practised harder than old Jeff.
How did I manage to be in the running for corny old exit lines? Easy. An hour and a half of violent karate training, followed by an all-nighter with a very sweet brown belt, two packets of Papastratos without filter, one bottle of whisky and half a bottle of brandy, and presto, the stage was set. On Saturday morning my father took a look at me and ordered me on board his boat. He then took off for Spetsai. Once there I lunched and decided to go for a swim, having noticed some English friends nearby. While swimming back, I suddenly felt something bite me hard on the chest. For one moment I took it to be a sand shark and began to thrash around. Then I realised it must be a school of jellyfish, so I swam back as fast as I could in order to get away from them. Once on board, however, I could find nothing on my chest to indicate a bite, although it continued to hurt quite a lot. I figured it must have been a female jellyfish, and left it at that.
The pain did not go away, however, and that evening I decided to stay on board. Throughout the night I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, while the chest pains got worse. The captain, who I am now in- formed used to be a butcher before taking to sea, assured me I had nothing to worry about. He went so far as to say the jellyfish came from Turkey, and that Turkish jelly- fish were known to bring on a high fever. In the morning, my daddy took a second look, and sped back to Athens. There the family doctor diagnosed a massive heart attack and ordered me straight to hospital.
Now as everyone who has read Jeff's accounts of his various hospital stays knows, only a fool would try and emulate his descriptions. Suffice it to say that I was in a private room, and felt too ill to pick up the gallows humour that hospital wards are known for. The best I can do is repeat the joke of an elderly cancer patient who sat and chain-smoked outside my room: 'What is 14 inches long and hangs down to the knees of Andreas Papandreou?' The answer is his necktie, and if I heard it once I swear I heard it one hundred times in the week I was in there.
Needless to say, my father cancelled his cruise with his latest girlfriend (she's Miss Greece, and 30 years younger than I am) and spent his time at my bedside. In fact he felt so sorry for me, he suddenly announced he was rewriting his will and leaving everything to me, not the smartest of moves in case of my snuffing it, unless he wishes to pay Papandreou twice. My mother, more practical, prayed non-stop.
Yes, there is nothing like a little old heart attack to make one Mr Popular overnight. Even my wife Alexandra has come around and forgiven me everything, not to mention my older brother. In the meantime, I'm out of hospital and resting before flying to London in the near future. I am reading Germinal, by Joe Biden, and Across the River and into the Trees, by Teddy Kennedy, and it helps pass the time. I am also picking up some good exit lines.
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