High life
Money matters
Taki
f one were to judge the state of capital- ism by the amount of time New Yorkers spend discussing the stock market, the system is certain to be around long after the planet Earth is simply a distant mem- ory for Martian old age pensioners. To paraphrase old Winnie, never have so many suddenly owed so much, and talked about it for so long.
The subject of margin calls was first broached by a total stranger in the depart- ure area at Heathrow airport. Thanks to the newly appointed editor of the Taller, however, I was suffering from a horren- dous hangover, and made it clear in no uncertain terms that I did not wish to talk about paper losses of the root of all drugs. Alas, matters did not improve once I was airborne. The howls of anguish emanating from the first-class section reminded me of those Cecil B. De Mille films which de- picted Jesus chasing the money-lenders from the temple. Oy, veh.
I guess it sounds strange to many people, but having been born a Christian I was taught early on never to worry about money, cry over losing it, and certainly not to discuss it more than necessary. This makes me a member of an extremely small minority among Noo Yorkers, and an endangered one at that. (Mind you, it's not only happening in New York. I hear that those moneybags at the New Republic who proved so gallant when Charlie Glass was kidnapped are howling more than usual too.) The irony is that everyone knew the crunch was coming, but chose instead to listen to their greed rather than to common sense. I'm no businessman, and am proud not to be one, but even I knew that the you-know-what was about to hit the fan. And I did put my money where my mouth was. I tried to sell my Long Island house, knowing that I could buy it back for half the price in two years' time, but the sale fell through.
I decided to do this following a drunken dinner with Jimmy Goldsmith and Gianni Agnelli last May. It was at Mortimer's, and I was the host. Jimmy and Gianni know how discreet I am, and therefore kept quiet throughout the dinner. About business, that is. When the cigars came round I demanded some advice in return for the bill I had just paid. 'Sell your mother, if you can,' came the answer.
So what did a couple of stockbroker friends of mine do once I told them what the two wise men had said? They got me to buy shares, rather than sell them, and for a while they made Jimmy and Gianni look like amateurs. No longer. Oy, veh, scream the two brokers non-stop, while the head of Fiat and Sir James are whistling all the way to the bank.
Mind you, a wiser man than both Avvo- cato Agnelli and Jimmy Goldsmith, ex- President Nixon, told me upon my release from Pentonville that the 1988 election would be fought on a single issue: the economy, c'est tout. Last Monday I lun- ched with the Duke of Beaufort and Pamela Harriman chez Avvocato Agnelli, and the discussion centred around who the Democratic nominee would be. Mrs Harri- man, who is the mother of Winston Chur- chill. MP and was once the daughter-in-law of Winston Churchill, is the numero uno individual fund-raiser in the Democratic party. (Which is like the Duke of Welling- ton raising money for Napoleon's return from exile.) She is extremely well con- nected, and thinks that Gore from Tennes- see will win. I am not at all well connected, but know that Gore will not win, even if the market dips below 100.
Every Democrat running for president is a midget, literally, and Cuomo, who pre- tends not to he running, is the biggest midget of them all, including Dukakis, but such is the immaturity of the great Amer- ican public that any of those dagos might well get elected. Personally, if a Democrat had to be elected, I wish it would be the only giant among them, literally, Bill Brad- ley, but like the gent that he is, he doesn't really want it.
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