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Taki
one is loathe to criticise certain letters to the editor because — at least in one case — one never knows who wrote them. In last week's Spectator, a letter signed by my old towelhead buddy Mohammed Fayed, took Paul Johnson and the poor little Greek boy to task for all sorts of things, but where I was concerned, it was mainly that I had no moolah when I was young and that I was a freeloader.
So far so good, bad rather, because I'm not so sure the signed by Fayed letter wasn't written by his PR flunkie, Michael Cole, a smoothie who takes `Ayrab' gold the way the proverbial duck takes to water. Now there's only one thing to say when Mohammed Fayed 'accuses' one of not having money, and that is 'well, at least my money, however little, is my own,' unlike certain Egyptians whom the Board of Trade investigated and decided had LIED ABOUT THEIR WEALTH AND THEIR ORIGINS.
In fact I'm rather surprised at Fayed — if he's the one who wrote the letter he under- signed — at bringing up the subject of wealth as well as the past. If he didn't write it, he should severely reprimand whoever did, but if he's the true author of it, well, he's probably eaten too many dates and they've clouded his brain. People who have been caught out by a government commis- sion and branded as liars should not bring up the past. It is almost as stupid as me writing about Pentonville and the time I spent in the pokey. Friends keep telling me not to do it.
Ironically, in his letter, my favourite Egyptian writes that he has not applied for membership of any gentleman's club here or in Egypt, and would never join one that I belonged to. I say ironically, because I happened to be in the billiard room at one of my two St James's clubs when a fellow member asked me whether it was true that Fayed descended from some grand Egyp- tian family, as he was once advertising. (It was during his fight to gain control of Har- rods.) Some other members who heard the conversation burst out laughing rather loudly, and I believe that was the end of it.
The wish to go back to the scene of the crime and give oneself away is called the Raskolnikov complex, after the hero of Crime and Punishment, written by that great Egyptian novelist whose name escapes me momentarily. Mind you, I really don't mind Fayed lying about his ori- gins. Many have done it before him, and a hell of a lot will do it after him. What both- ers me is him getting into bed with The Guardian and trying to entrap MPs. He should just thank Allah that Lord Tebbitt gave him a break and permitted him to `buy' Harrods, and leave it at that.
And it looks as if he's still at it. His absurd lawyer, Lester, I cannot bring myself to call him Lord Lester, fresh from making the Garrick club a better place by resigning, was back in the news last week over the four peers who took money in exchange for asking questions in the House of Lords. Lester has to put up or shut up, or at least tell whoever his organ grinder is that he will no longer be the monkey.
This has been the bad news. The good is that Fayed, or whoever writes his very sharp and amusing letters, is going to be writing a column in The Spectator very soon. When I rang the sainted editor and asked him how soon would I be right in calling my favourite towelhead a colleague, the sainted one was in no mood for jokes. His expectant wife had just had an appalling accident and was in hospital unable to move.
That is when I remembered a party I went to recently in the Big Bagel. A robot about my height came up to me and asked me my name and whether I wanted a drink. I said yes, a double vodka, and it whooshed away and came back with it and even said, `thank you, Taki.' When I recommended the robot to the sainted one, he asked me where, but oh, where, could he find one. That is when we both cracked up. Harrods is the only place that could possibly have it.
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