High life
Author, author
Taki
Athens
Alas, my boat is too big for the London stage (and the talent much too small), so Drury Lane will have to wait for the high life of Taki. Perhaps I have a chance on Broadway, which is known to like this type of thing.
I had a short chat with Keith Water- house and Ned Sherrin following the pre- mière of Jeff's play, but it didn't exactly come up trumps. In fact Ned Sherrin was downright rude. When 1 asked him who could possibly do for me what Peter O'Toole is doing for Jeff, he thought for a while and then suggested one of Aspinall's apes. A ludicrous idea. When was the last time an ape went cruising at 35 knots sur- rounded by you know Koo. But let's face it. Publicity is to the ego what a double bed is to a hooker. Watching Jeff sign autographs outside the Apollo was a humbling experience. Although so- ber, he not only looked elated but also drunk. Later on he regaled me with stories about filming Lawrence of Arabia, so I assume there have been two role reversals.
Poor Jeff. He is about to become rich, and his troubles are just starting- I certain- ly wouldn't wish to be in his shoes. And thanks to the Greek government — the Athens mayor to be exact — my problems are just about over. The day I flew back to the Big Olive my lawyer gave me the good news as I stepped off the plane. The town council, 50 members strong, had just de- creed that a large piece of land belonging to my nephew and myself would be tied up indefinitely, which in the Olive Republic means one thing: it is being expropriated.
Needless to say, I had a small nervous breakdown in the airport followed by a bigger one that evening. Although the powers that be in the Olive don't like to use words such as nationalisation or ex- propriation — stealing would be the best word for it — it is exactly that. They don't have money to buy it, but when the land becomes attached, it loses all its value. This is prime property in the middle of the city. Now it will sit there until one day one of my inheritors will sign over its rights because he or she will be unable to pay the taxes that are involved with owning such a plot. As I cannot sell it to the stage or town, turn it into a green, or build on it, the signing over might come quicker than it took the Duke of Westminster to turn St George's Hospital into an office block.
The irony is that it wasn't Papandreou's henchmen who pulled the fast one on me, but the very people who I have gone half broke in order to support. I guess a Greek official is a thief, no matter what his political affiliation.
Not that I will give up without some kind of fight. But it's a sad state of affairs when the white hats emulate the black ones, and the poor little Greek boy is deprived of the root of all envy which he planned to spend not on himself for a change.
But back to more pleasant thoughts. Given the fact that a collection of my scribblings was published by Viking last week in London, not only was I Jeff Bernard for a day and got my picture in the papers, I also threw a party for my 40 closest friends in Annabel's, a party that may or may have not included Salman Rushdie. I say this because a very short woman with enormous breasts and dark skin came in accompanied by Viking- Penguin people. For some strange reason I approached her and thanked her for com- ing, despite her looking awfully displeased with me. That is when I think I recognised old Sal, especially as he — sorry, she was downing the champagne as if prohibi- tion was about to be imposed.
I guess being a fellow author and all that.. .
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