High life

They used to say that the primary function of a boat was to be beautiful. I suppose that is why boats were feminine, as in ‘she’s a real beauty, that one’. Puritan is certainly a beauty and I’ve had a great time on board, especially when anchoring near some modern horror or other, bloated and overstuffed with ‘toys’, its occupants reflecting the boat: fat, ugly and invasive. Why is it that boats reflect their owners, as dogs do, and as women used to, although one can get oneself killed nowadays for describing a female as ‘owned’? Show me a tart and she’s sure to be with a James Stunt type.

On board S/Y Puritan   I’m sailing off the charred eastern coast of Athens where so many died last week, and I remain suspicious as hell. Fifteen or so fires starting simultaneously smells like arson to me, committed by scum who murder for a TV set, or set fires in order to loot abandoned houses. Sometime soon we Greeks will have to take matters into our own hands. Frontier justice will prevail. Mind you, the community of Mati, where most of the dead lived, was illegally built some 40 years ago, and only issued building permits after the fact. It is a middle-class community of mostly retired doctors and lawyers, but it lay in a gully that funnelled the flames all the way to the sea. Extremely high winds did not help. The authorities talk a good game but will do nothing.

Reading is the best antidote to debauchery I know of, and I’ve been hitting the books lately. History mostly. Once upon a time I used to read novels. Back then I found real magic embedded in the prose of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Maugham, Leo T and Fyodor D, Waugh, Greene, and John O’Hara’s potboilers about upper-class swells. I was friendly with Irwin Shaw and James Jones, of The Young Lions and From Here To Eternity fame and read both men assiduously. Shaw and Jones were tough guys, army vets, and Hemingway types. Yet it was Fitzgerald, whose indelible stamp of grace, haunted my youth. Dick Diver and Tender Is The Night and the Riviera and all that. His romantic imagination transfigured his characters and settings to people and places I knew well.

New York I am seriously thinking of moving back to London. The family insists on it. New York, they say, is much too far away and much too shabby. Basically, the Bagel’s attractions are the karate, the occasional judo session, and the weekly Brooklyn parties chez Michael Mailer. The women are better in London, but the real draw are the friends. I have many in London, very few in New York. The past fortnight in London was magical. Then the scene went sour, as parasites and social-justice warriors such as Bianca Jagger and Ed Miliband jumped in to hog the headlines, joining protesters in calling Trumpa racist, a sexist, an Islamophobic bigot and a hate-monger. La Jagger was described in the media as an actress. Funny that.

What a week this has been! What a great mood I’m in! Why, it’s almost like being in bed… with Georgie Wells. (Details will follow, but don’t let me mislead you. I didn’t even get to first base.) It began the day before those amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesties were celebrated, with a speech I gave before the nicest and brightest group of men you’d ever wish to meet, none of whom go to places like Gstaad or are seen in places like the Eagle. Afterwards my mate Tim Hanbury and I went hunting for women at 5 Hertford Street and ended up paralytic instead. On 4 July, 242 years ago, the Americans rose against you-know-who and we at The Spectator marked the day with our summer party. It was wonderful, as always.

Oh, to be in England, and almost die of heat after the Austrian Alps. Yes, Sarah Sands was right in her Speccie diary about last week being a great week of summer parties in London, but the really good ones are still to come. This weekend both Blenheim Palace and Badminton House play host to great balls. I only mention them because there are only two English dukes whom I acknowledge, Beaufort and Marlborough, because I knew both men when they were in their teens. There has been some grumbling about the fact that neither house would give in and change the date, but I’m fine with that. Two simultaneous country balls in two ducal houses split the social climbers in half, making it easier and more fun for the rest of us.

Schloss Wolfsegg   I was watching two very old men slowly approaching the open doors of the Pilatus airplane I was leaning against when it dawned on me that they were the two pilots who were about to fly me to my daughter’s wedding. The one called Willy extended his hand, as did Alex, a short guy who looked as though he was in his nineties. ‘Ah, Herr Tennisman,’ he said, referring to a match I had won more than 50 years earlier when I was on the tennis circuit, ‘wie geht es?’ Willy then told me that Alex had retired from flying airbuses 30 years before, and now flew as insurance in case the pilot dropped dead en route. That was fine by me. The Pilatus is my favourite airplane, with six wide seats and one just behind the two pilots.

New York I write this on my last day in the Bagel, and it sure is a scorcher, heat and humidity so high that the professional beggars on Fifth Avenue have moved closer to the lakes in Central Park. Heat usually calms the passions, but nowadays groupthink pundits are so busy presenting fake news as journalism you’d think this was election week in November. Here’s one jerk in the New York Times: ‘The court’s decision was narrow…’ The decision in question is the Supreme Court ruling that a baker could refuse a gay couple’s request for a cake on religious grounds. The writer who described the result as narrow, one Adam Liptak (Lipgloss would be more appropriate), did not mention that the vote was seven to two. Talk about fake news.

New York The summertime exodus is upon us. The Hamptons are overflowing with mouth-frothing groupies looking for celebrities, and the Long Island Expressway is ringing with the hissy fits of enraged drivers stuck in traffic for hours on end. One reason I gave up a beautiful estate in Southampton L.I. was the inability to get there before a lady who had initially said yes changed her mind because of the fatigue and boredom of sitting in a car watching other stationary cars. The Hamptons have become an artistic pit stop for the summer. The nouveaux riches need art as badly as #MeToo needs sexual predators; it justifies their grandstanding.

New York   This week 50 years ago saw the assassination of Robert Kennedy, a man I met a couple of times in the presence of Aristotle Onassis, whom some Brit clown-writer once dubbed Bobby’s murderer. (Bad books need to sell, and what better hook than a conspiracy theory implicating a totally innocent man?) I once witnessed Bobby, at a Susan Stein party, asking Onassis for funds — the 1968 election was coming up — and Ari showing Bobby his two empty trouser pockets. Bobby’s assassination did alter American politics. Violence, black anger and despair spilled out on to the streets of American cities.

I’m back in New York and digesting the five glorious days spent in Normandy. What was the fighting all about, you may ask: was it about freedom, equality, cultural diversity, man’s dignity — all liberal catchphrases these days? Liberty and freedom are also big words nowadays, but all I see are massive central governments with arbitrary powers à la Brussels and Washington DC. Normandy promised us a lot but, as far as I’m concerned, delivered little. If freedom of speech was non-existent in Germany in 1940, political correctness makes it just as rare in London and New York in 2018. Our stifling culture of PC makes the sacrifices of those young men who fell in Normandy seem, well, not in vain exactly, but hardly worth it.

Pegasus Bridge, Normandy   We’re taking morning coffee at the Café Gondrée, which skirts theThey operate in total darkness, in choking fumes. No man can take more than four days of tank fighting bridge. It still belongs to Arlette Gondrée, whose family owned it on D-Day. She was a girl at the time and she now stands, old but erect and schoolteacher-like, looking us over as we have breakfast and try to imagine those brave Brits who took and held the bridge so long ago. Our Führer-teacher James Holland called it the greatest piece of flying ever. The gliders managed to land in the dark less than 50 yards from the bridge on a grassy strip not much wider than a tennis court and three courts long.

Omaha Beach, Normandy I am standing in a German cement bunker having walked through a large gaping hole caused by an incoming shell that must have instantly killed the handful of defenders. The bunker is on the beach, about 50 yards from the sea at high tide, and an afternoon mist is rolling in from the north. The scene is eerie and chilling, and 74 years on my heart goes out to those defenders. There are ghosts all around us. I try to put myself in the place of the very young, or old, Wehrmacht soldiers inside the bunker as they face the 6,700 or so ships that loom suddenly on the horizon. There is no time to think as naval heavy guns unleash projectiles weighing as much as two tonnes, and let up only as the landing boats are approaching.

New York Talk about high life this is not. I smelled a rat long ago, but then the scent got weaker and weaker. Now it’s back — and stronger than ever. I’m talking here, of course, about the Saudis, the Qataris and the son-in-law who has also risen, Jared Kushner. Almost a year ago the Saudis issued an ultimatum to Qatar to meet its list of demands or face a blockade by Saudi-allied countries in the Gulf. All sorts of accusations were made and the Qataris were given 24 hours to comply. While the 300,000 Qatari citizens froze en masse, the couple of million non-Qatari migrant workers went about their business. In fact, they welcomed the crisis because it momentarily stopped them being mistreated and abused by Qatari locals, who were busy hiding under their beds.

New York ‘What do we do with these men?’ thundered a New York Times headline. It was followed by a frothing-mouthed, overwrought hissy fit worthy of an Oscar in the overacting category. The men in question are the usual suspects: media people and Hollywood types who have been accused by the weaker sex of sexual harassment. Oh boy! Is this place going nuts or what? Spring is here, the girls are in their summer dresses — not really, they all wear leggings — and all one hears about is the bestiality of the stronger sex. The question is: who is next? The bookies are having a field day. ‘Under what terms should they be allowed to return to normal life?’ asks a female Times hack. As there is no American gulag, why not shoot the bastards and be done with it?

Benito lives! The Blackshirts are here. Fascism is on the march — at least according to Madeleine Albright, secretary of state under Bill Clinton and in my book, having allowed Albanian gangsters to win power in Kosovo, the worst American foreign minister ever. She attacks Hungary and Poland, the left’s newest whipping boys, for preferring their own kind to African migrants, but she’s not alone. The usual suspects are all piling in. Fascism is back, but this time, alas, without the beautiful uniforms. Damn! La Albright was taken to task a long time ago by Barbara Amiel for pretending she did not know she was Jewish — until Washington beckoned. Hasn’t she ever looked in the mirror? wrote Barbara, Lady Black, herself very proud to be Jewish.

New York Remember when the internet, Twitter, Facebook and other such useless gimmicks were supposed to usher in an era of transparency and knowledgable bliss? This technology makes George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four redundant: no longer science fiction; more Knights of the Round Table. Big Brother is more powerful and more all-knowing than ever before, and we have that Errol Flynn lookalike Mark Zuckerberg to thank. There is no such thing as privacy any longer, unless of course one writes letters by hand and does not possess a smart telephone. (Include me out — I own a mobile but use it only when on board a sailing boat.

When poor old battered Odysseus landed on Circe’s island having lost all his ships (except his flagship) when he tangled with the Laestrygonians (their king liked to eat Greek flesh and swallowed up most of his crews, yummy) Circe — witch, sorceress and goddess in her own right — turned the few survivors into swine, except for Odysseus, whom she wanted for some old-fashioned hanky-panky. If she were around today she would most probably be the first American female president. Odysseus serviced her rather well and stayed in her palace for a year. He also used the ‘moly’, the antidote Hermes had given him in the form of a magic herb that turned pigs back into men.

New York If Albanian television had shown the programme CBS did last week — with a woman who has sex on camera for a living describing how she had unprotected Bing-Bing with the president — I think even Albanians would feel so diminished they’d move to Kosovo. But this is America, and it’s a woman’s, woman’s, woman’s world! Or perhaps a frontal lobe is missing. The degree of reverence afforded to a porn actress by Anderson (kiss me) Cooper was astonishing. His smouldering gaze of restraint was touching, as was his phony squint of chagrin that no protection was used. See what I mean about moving to Kosovo? But this is not Albania but America, the Home of the Depraved.

Gstaad At dinner the other night a friend wondered what came first, social climbing or name-dropping? It’s obviously a very silly question, and we all had a laugh about it. ‘As Achilles told me in his tent the other evening, Helen always fancied him and Menelaus didn’t like it a bit.’ Or, ‘I’m rather tired of listening to Claudius complaining that Agrippina doesn’t hold a candle to Messalina in the sack.’ We played that game for a while and then I dropped the name of Highgrove, and the first time the Queen was seen in public with Camilla. I began to describe the outdoor lunch and my guests started to drift off. No, it’s true, I was there, I told them.