High life
Frank, fearless and fined
Taki
n Armenian philosopher once com- pared Austria to an opera performed by the understudies. If that's the case, then Greece is like a police station taken over by the Mafia. The Big Olive is now the Big Sewer, as garbage strikes have transformed the city into a vast, rancid hellhole, a whiff of which reminds me of anti-Vietnam peace rallies during the Sixties.
My close friend Stavros Xarchakos, a prominent composer and member of par- liament, walked out of political life last month calling the present system `corrupt, deeply anti-intellectual, anti-human', and a few more choice epithets the soon to be ex-sainted editor will not permit me to call English judges.
Stavros is a hell of a man. He is an artist who is right-wing, which is as rare as a virgin prostitute. He is also obsessed with girls, surely a sign of greatness. Oh yes, I almost forgot. He has had children out of wedlock with the beautiful Carlotta, de- finitely the mark of genius. The fact that he refused to sit in the same chamber with socialist crooks proves it.
And speaking of crooks, Andreas Papandreou, the indicted leader of Greek socialism, has been flying around Europe visiting friends like Willy Brandt and show- ing off his bride. The man obviously has no shame, but nor do the people who break bread with him. Ali Babandreou's moll is a terrific social climber. From airline stewar- dess to television presenter to mistress of the prime minister, she now hopes to become first lady. Personally, I fervently hope she ends up a prison visitor, but so gutless are my countrymen I now see no way that the dirty old man of Greek politics will do a Taki.
And speaking of dirty old men, about 15 years ago, in the then beautiful Athens tennis club, I spotted a little 15-year-old blonde girl playing in the next court to mine and called her rather unoriginally Lolita. She turned red and told me her name was Elizabeth, and not to bother her. But I continued to as she grew of age, writing her love letters and putting on the usual moves a man in pursuit puts on.
All in vain, I may add. One day I saw her at Annabel's and she introduced me to her husband, a Greek ship-owner. We never spoke again until this morning, when Christie's sent a representative all the way from London to check on a painting of mine. I'm about to flog in order to start my newspaper. It turned out to be Elizabeth, the Olive Republic's contribution to the art world. She looked better than ever — as girls who come from my island of Zante tend to because of lack of Turkish blood — which put me in a terrific mood. There is nothing like seeing a nice blonde girl early in the morning following a very long night of arguing politics and drinking whisky. And she said my painting will fetch a lot, which put me in an even better mood. There is nothing like seeing a lot of money come one's way only for it to disappear in the pursuit of yellow journalism.
Which, alas, all Greek newspapers are known for, and when I say all I mean all. Mine will be no exception because, after all, I have to hire Greek hacks, and there are heavy fines and even prison sentences in store for those who dare write respons- ibly or the truth. The latter will be reserved for my English-speaking daily, one that will read by lager louts in the islands in the summer, and I have already signed up Nigel Dempster and Anthony Haden- Guest as my London and Big Bagel corres- pondents. Being old friends they asked for the minimum: Nigel for my wife's signet ring, Anthony for my father's wine cellar. In view of the fact that three of the six most important publishers have already been murdered by friends of ... sorry, I mean by persons unknown, I plan to run my empire-to-be from Gstaad, where the last person to expire did so from too much caviar.
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