Greece is jasmine, bougainvillea, mimosa, cypress, olive, pine, oregano and sage, rock, sand, wine, fruit and the bluest and cleanest water in the Med. The Peloponnese has the nicest, most welcoming and generous of people, none more than my host and hostess at their private island, literally a paradise on earth. Around 60 staff keep the place ticking along perfectly, and one thing I’ve learned in this long life of mine among the rich and famous is, you can’t fake it with the ones who work for you: if they don’t love you, it shows. I’ve seen it time and again, the long faces of staff among famous Italian carmakers, German industrialists, Texan oil giants. I’ve even seen it where Greek ship owners are concerned, we Greeks being particularly close with those who work for us. You are what those who work for you think of you. In the private island where I spent the last week, the faces of those who looked out for us told the story. We sure were one big happy family.
I sailed in and the trouble started as if a gun had gone off. A Nero-like feast awaited, fruit, vegetables, homemade pasta, rosé wine to tempt Odysseus to untie himself and take on Circe — but I spotted the danger quicker than you can say Englishmen. Three of them were descending towards the feast, so I let out a cry reminiscent of the warning at Messolonghi, when treachery led the hated Turks to await the exodus of the encircled Greeks, who died to a man. ‘I’m a Greek, a patriot, save some for me.’ Gavin Rankin, proprietor of London’s finest restaurant, Bellamy’s, Dave Ker, a man who unbeknownst to him once won a male beauty contest in the Soviet Union, and the Duke of Marlborough, no comment needed, were about to attack the food and I happened to be hungry. The staff, headed by the major domo whose name is Hercules, is still laughing.
The mother of my children arrived that evening, commenting that I had put on weight and asking to know whether Phoebe had been around. I have convinced her that the fictitional Phoebe is my mistress, a 27-year-old from Kansas, who is beautiful but wild and a drunk. ‘She ran off with some arms dealer,’ I said, ‘then got dropped off at Mykonos after wrecking his boat and dropping all his drugs in the sea.’
‘The proper place for her,’ was all the MoMC said.
We also played some mind games after we realised that all the guests happened to like each other, and rather a lot in some cases, as for example yours truly and Edla Marlborough. Me: Will you renounce your title and become simply Mrs Taki? The duchess: I’m flattered and you’re so kind, but no! Me: Why not? The duchess: I’m too old for you. (She’s in her thirties.) So I got a peck on the cheek for my troubles and her husband Jamie put his arm around me and told me not to take it personally. But oi did, oi did.
One game we played was making up the guests on a dream cruise. I suggested ‘Sir’ Philip and ‘Lady’ Green; a criminal American gangster romancing their daughter; James Stunt, Bernie Ecclestone’s son-in-law, a man I suspect may be broke and is posing as a billionaire; Stevie Cohen, the lubricious Wall Street hedgefunder who made $8 billion, paid only a couple of billion in fines for conduct unbecoming an honest man, and who slithered out of the hands of the fuzz by a thin thread-like margin; and a couple of Kardashians. My choices for the ‘dream’ cruise won hands down. Otherwise we spent our days lazing in the sun, swimming on the beach with translucent water, playing tennis, and drinking chateaux at night while dining outdoors to the chirrup of cicadas and the sounds of Cole Porter. I even sang a lullaby to the duchess: ‘I hear music and there’s no one there, I smell blossoms and the trees are bare, all at once I seem to walk on air, I wonder why, I wonder why?’ I was then interrupted by the duke: ‘There is nothing you can take, to relieve that pleasant ache, you’re not sick you’re just in love.’ Yippee!
And while I’m at it — the dream cruise that is — with dubious knights and even more dubious ladies, I’d like to know why my friend Wafic Said has not been knighted or ennobled for his non-stop charitable giving. Wafic is among the nicest and most generous of men for British causes, and they do not include all the good work he’s done for Syrians refugees, yet we have great knights such as the aforementioned Green man. It is a disgrace, and someone better do something about it. The rot starts at the top, and it’s the gong system that needs fixing. Ennoble Mr Said, strip some of their ill-gotten gongs, forbid any members of the Qatari ruling family from entering the country, and from now on send all my correspondence to Blenheim Palace, Woodstock, Oxfordshire.
Subscribe to The Spectator Australia today for a quality of argument not found in any other publication. Get more Spectator Australia for less – just $1 for 6 weeks