Patmos

A funny thing happened on my way to this beautiful place, an island without druggies, nightclub creeps, clip joints or hookers. I stopped in Athens for about five hours in order to look over old haunts and just walk around places I’d known as a youth, when I

noticed something incredible: none of the youngsters I encountered were texting, nor were they glued to their mobiles and bumping into people. Sure, some were on their phones, but the majority of them were talking and gesticulating like normal humans used to do before the technology curse rained down on us.

Well, as they say, nothing lasts for ever, and once I was on Patmos friends informed me that what I had noticed in Athens was Alice in Wonderland stuff. Still, Patmos is wonderful, with very polite and friendly natives and no left-wing virtue signalling, as the place is full of ovens and gas hobs. The only thing missing is crime. Just Stop Oil cretins would be as welcome here as an atheist in a foxhole, but I’d love to see them come, as the solitary jail in Skala is empty, and the cops are feeling underemployed.

If you’re looking for action, however, head 85 miles to the southwest and you’ll find the biggest brothel this side of Las Vegas. It’s called Mykonos, and I used to love the place almost as much as I adored my mother. No longer. Even the magical embroidery of memory – the aching pathos of youthful romances and all-night partying – cannot erase the present horror of the place. Rich Gulf playboys, whose inability to attract women is known even in the cheapest dives of Ibiza, bring their own hookers on board their horror boats. There are non-stop vomit-inducing displays of wealth by unknown ‘billionaires’ and, worst of all, once proud Mykonians take in the freak show and do nothing about it. Money does talk.

And yet, why do I choose virtuous Patmos rather than the vice-ridden Mykonos? I am a sinner after all, and proud of it. That’s an easy one. Age has turned me into a goodie-goodie, plus the presence of a wife, two children and four grandchildren help to keep me northeast of temptation. Vice vs virtue is old stuff, and a certain Aristotle dealt with the conundrum in around 350 BC. He was Plato’s student until the latter’s death, and then gained further fame by developing a student from the north of Greece by the name of Alexander the Great.

Trust an American to turn Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics into a self-help work, a review of which was recently published in the New Bagel. The translation and abridgement of Aristotle’s work is by Susan Sauvé Meyer, and its title is just what hamburger-munching, TV commercial-watching Americans need: How to Flourish: An Ancient Guide to Living Well.

According to the great Greek philosopher Taki, a flourishing existence is also a virtuous one, although Taki points out time and again that ‘Do as I say, not as I do’ is the basis of his truth. Ethical guidance is desperately needed in the western world nowadays,

but what Aristotle taught was what it means to be good, not how to be good, which is the modern huckster version. Although Aristotle’s was the first treatise to distinguish between right and wrong, later philosophers such as John Stuart Mill and Kant based their philosophies on the same principle.

Promulgating rules for living is now big business, especially in the land of the depraved. The Bagel Times, most of the media, and Hollywood all promote a degenerate style of living, so when someone like Jordan Peterson comes along and advises us how to be happy and nice he is certainly welcome. The great Greek philosopher Taki is often asked about diversity, equity and inclusion. His answer is: ‘It’s a great con perpetrated by those who want a bigger slice of the

cake but are unwilling to work for it.’ Another question posed while the great philosopher T. preaches underneath the Acropolis is which words people should never use because they might offend others. His answer is always the same: ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me.’ The vast crowd always gives him a great ovation after that one, and then it’s time for Patmos with a brief stop in Mykonos for a little bit of sinning.

But I digress. My daughter’s great friend and mine, Alexander Schwarzenberg, after whose family the palaces that ring Vienna are named, owns large pieces of Patmos and nearby small islands. His mother is Greek and he speaks the lingo like a native, although he looks like a tall blond prince-paratrooper. I am politically to his right, but not by much. He gave a wonderful dinner where I met Greek friends I hadn’t seen in more than 30 years, with the expected result: a massive hangover that would have made the Karamazov brothers keel over. I also met a ship owner whose wife I knew as a little girl. She was telling a story about how he got into shipping – he owns 42 big ones now – and he mentioned the name of a ship – Metsovon – while trying to remember the name of the one that came with it. ‘Meteora,’ I told him and he seemed nonplussed. ‘How do you know this?’ ‘Easy, I’m the one that sold them to you.’ More drinks.