Taki
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I know, I know, snobbery is nothing but bad manners trying to pass themselves off as good taste, but today’s rich are of such cartoonish crudeness and vulgarity that they make any definition of snobbery redundant. Oy veh! That evening I took my crew along with my guests to dinner in the port, and had some delicious wine picked by my cook. The owner’s smile should have warned me. The bill could have covered the first year of the Iraq war. And speaking of the war, I thought Greece winning the European Cup in 2004 was the greatest win upset ever. But what about the Iraqis winning the Asian Cup? The Ancient Greeks, in their infinite wisdom, would stop fighting during Olympic competition. But try and say that to the Iraqis blowing each other up in that miserable place. Next week I will present in these here pages Taki’s three steps for W to save his lame-duck presidency, so get your Speccie early as Washington is preparing to buy every available copy.
From Portofino and an attack of the gout it was to Elba, where on 4 May 1814, courtesy of the Royal Navy frigate HMS Undaunted, Bonaparte arrived. Napo was named Emperor and Ruler of Elba but, as Paul Johnson wrote, this was a joke, most likely thought up by Talleyrand, whose sly sense of humour escaped the emperor. According to Paul, Napoleon even designed a flag for his little territory. I visited his house, now a museum, the moment we dropped anchor, and I now realise why the emperor stayed only a year. The back of his house is a parking lot, and after the splendours of Fontainebleau even John Prescott would choose a hasty migration. Who the hell wants to live in a house looking out over a lot of crappy Fiats?
Mind you, Elba is not my favourite place. I grew up worshipping Napoleon — until I met Paul Johnson, that is — and still feel his pain. How would any of you like to have ruled half the European continent and 80 million, and then end up running an island of 25,000, in a place 19 miles long and 7 wide? Worse, much worse, who among us men would like to be stuck on an island, even with Marie Walewska (who brought his son Alexandre with her on a visit), while Marie-Louise was tripping the light fantastic with General Count von Neipperg, an Austrian who suffered from priapism, if one can call that suffering. I shudder at the thoughts that must have crossed Napo’s mind. (Neipperg as souvlaki; Neipperg as a roast; Neipperg as a marshmellow.)
And speaking of terrible thoughts, I’d like to make souvlaki out of those Arabs who go around calling themselves princes and demand that we adhere to their primitive customs about women. The oil-rich Emir of Qatar might not like his female relatives to fly next to European men who are strangers, but then he should provide them with a flying carpet, instead of holding up a plane in boiling Milano. The BA pilot was terrific in throwing the bums off, but he should have done it earlier.
It’s even worse in the Land of the Depraved. A very rich and famous American football star, the African–American Michael Vick, has been indicted for dog fighting. He bred man’s best friend to do the job. Those dogs that refused to partake in the gruesome operation, according to the federal indictment, were ‘often shot, hanged, drowned or electrocuted for not fighting’. But that’s not my point. Vick may have been jeered by animal lovers, but he was also cheered as he entered court. The mind reels. Here’s poor little Taki not allowed to say anything rude about minorities, and this multimillionaire bum, who staged these horrors for fun and profit, is cheered by celebrity-mad idiots who will forgive anything as long as the perpetrator is a big name.
One thing is for sure, however. There will be no Michael Vicks where I’m off to next. Capri, the Straits of Scylla and Charybdis, the Ionian Islands and so on. I’ve made this trip many times before and it’s not my favourite, but it does bring back memories of when Qatar was under British rule and people like Vick had never been heard of. Happy sailing.
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