High life
Patriotic times
Taki
Gstaad ong his usual pearls, Godfrey Smith writing in the Sunday Times last week men- tioned that during the blazing Battle of Britain summer cab drivers would not accept money from RAF boys going out for a beer. Patriotism back then was neither a joke nor an embarrassment, not with Messerschmitts, Heinkels and Domiers overflying the green and pleasant Kent countryside.
Twenty-two years ago, during another blazing summer, the Turks massed their troops ready to invade Cyprus following a Greek military coup against Makarios. I happened to be staying at the Hotel du Cap in Antibes, and flew to Athens just as the airport was closing down. The cab driv- er taking me to the city asked me what I was doing coming at such a time, and I told him I was hoping to do my bit if war broke out. He was an old-timer. When he dropped me off at my father's ritzy address, he adamantly refused payment. When the general call-up came a few days after the successful Turkish invasion of the island, anyone in uniform rode free. But we never went to war. The colonels collapsed, Kara- mantis betrayed the King and returned alone to take power, and then backed off the military option. We lost half of Cyprus, but, more important, we lost honour, just like last week.
The only funny thing that happened to me in July of 1974 was driving up to Mount Parnis, where the present Lord Cowdray, Joe Dwek, Anthony Haden-Guest and other gambling fanatics were playing in a backgammon tournament. Some over- weight American women met me in the lobby and asked me whether hostilities were about to commence. 'Yes, and this is why I'm here,' I told them. I was in khaki and had my head shaved. 'As you can see, the radar station is just above the hotel, and it will be the first target of the Turkish airforce. I advise you to take cover immedi- ately.' I also warned the rest of the group that the Turks were notoriously lousy shots and were bound to hit the casino-hotel Complex instead of the radar station. Panic ensued. Except for Cowdray — he was then Michael Pearson — Dwek and Haden- Guest, who thought it rather romantic. They headed into Athens to look for women in distress.
As I write, there are a few Greek fisher- men who are very rich and owe their wealth to yours truly. The American women organised themselves, went to the seashore and offered an amazing amount of money to anyone willing to take them to Italy by sea. A small flotilla sailed west that afternoon.
Last week no Yankee women panicked on the island of Imia as there are 20 goats and close to 100 lizards on the rock, and I could be exaggerating. The greatest war hero ever got on the case and stopped the war between the ancient enemies. I thought the Greek premier, Costas Simitis, blundered terribly. He obviously has never taken martial arts, whose creed is never start a fight, but, once committed, don't back off. As he is an LSE man, I'm not sur- prised. We sent our navy there, gave an ultimatum and let the Turks bluff us. We never should have gone, but, once there, we should have fought.
Which brings me to my new best friend, Professor Jasper Griffin. Some of you may remember that both the Greek Ambas- sador and I made fools of ourselves two weeks ago when we attacked the good prof for his use of an ancient Greek device, irony. I went ballistic and did a Taki. Once I realised my mistake, I got drunk and wrote the prof a letter of apology, basically stating that 400 years of Johnny Turk had taken care of subtlety, humour and other sophisticated ancient Greek devices. (And where I come from, we weren't even under the Turks; imagine the rest of the mainland and islands.) He wrote me back a most gracious and generous letter, saying that — and here I quote him without permission — 'the Greeks haven't reached the sophistication of some of [his] British pupils, who regard patriotism as something between a joke and embarrassment'. (For any of my fellow Greeks out there, my NBF is again using irony in our favour.) Thanks, prof, and the bat I once reserved for you is now heading for Doughty Street, and I shall aim it at the sainted one's rear end for running the letter that proved me a fool.
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