High life
Uncle Joe, where are you?
Taki
Ater three months of uninterrupted sun and snow in the Alps, grey London feels dismal and depressive. Once upon a time the excitement began with the cross- ing of the Channel. Annabel's, Tramp, Mark's Club, Harry's Bar, sweet young things, well, you know the score. No longer. I guess the poor little Greek boy is getting old. Or maybe all my friends are. People now stay in the recovery ward for days fol- lowing a bender, and, worse, they complain openly about such banalities as swollen liv- ers and gouty toes. It's like being in an Ital- ian field hospital without the sunshine.
And speaking of sunshine, no wonder the English look so depressed all the time. I haven't taken the rays since the day I flew in two weeks ago. Lack of sunshine makes English people dour and desperately lack- ing Dionysian abandon. Their state of exis- tence seems to be one of catatonic recum- bency in a darkened room. Oy veh! (Wait- ing for Clinton to tell Blair what to do next can be far more dangerous to the soul than smoking is for the lungs.) Thank God for Dai Llewellyn. The seducer of the valleys is the only one left who can still stay up whoring and boozing and be available for lunch the next day. I had one night with him at Aspinall's, and some other places which shouldn't be men- tioned in as elegant a publication as The Spectator, and ten minutes after we split up around midday, he rang and proposed lunch at Mark's.
Mind you, it isn't only you Brits. There is cosmic futility making the rounds since the collapse of communism. Humans need challenges, and there was no bigger chal- lenge than to defeat the evil empire. Now adventure eludes us, and we have the Draft Dodger's sex life to keep us paralytic and unproductive. Uncle Joe, where are you now that we really need you?
As it is, my favourite people have finally taken over what they could have easily cap- tured 50 years ago, but for the Greeks, the Americans, the South Africans, the Cana- dians, the Australians and those so cruelly betrayed by the Lancaster House midgets, the gallant Rhodesians. Rolls-Royce now belongs to the Fatherland, although I've always thought of Rollers as all style, no substance. Some patriotic souls have cried foul, others have accused the superior Ger- man cars as lacking in character. Some lack of character, says the poor little Greek boy. I once owned a Roller and got rid of it quicker than you can say bad road-holding. I have owned only Mercedes, BMWs, Audis and Porsches ever since, and plan to stick to them even on that great autobahn without speed limits up above.
Bertelsmann, too, has been making progress on the Western front. The first thing the victors must do is send Gail Rebuck to the firing squad. She is a lefty of the worst kind, a rich one. Random House fell without a fight. Could this signal the end of Rebuck's excessive payments to such unreadable auteurs as Salman Rushdie and Martin Amis? Field Marshal Bertelsmann should give her the coup de grace in person.
See what I mean about lack of sunshine. It makes the otherwise sweet little Greek boy as mean as a snake. Better yet, as mean as the ex-ship steward, the Deputy Reichs- fiihrer, John Prescott. Like another Deputy Reichsfuhrer before him, one that helped himself to other people's wealth, Prescott decided on a 'super tax' against the poor folk whose houses are worth far less than those used tax-free by government minis- ters. Thank God, it didn't work. The Fiihrer knows damn well that his rich back- ers will not stand for it, and stopped the fat one in time. In the meantime, I'm off to the Bagel for some sun, rest and lotsa recreation.
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