Athens

 
With energy bordering on the demonic, I strut around an ancient stadium trying to make up for the debauchery of the past two weeks in Patmos. Alexandra has flown back to Gstaad and I’m staying with my oldest friend, Aliki Goulandris, whose magnificent country house north of the capital brings back very pleasant memories. Just saying her name, which is Alice in English, makes me think of my youth and my two tiny children who both grew up in this house. It was the golden age: Davis Cup, karate championships, polo in Paris, sailing the Nefertiti and Bushido, Lolly and JT and Alexandra swimming in the pool, and parties galore.

Among her many qualities – she is an opera buff and voracious reader – the one I like most in Aliki is her refusal to order the lives of others. There are children and grandchildren, sisters, cousins, nephews and nieces, and many, many friends. And their habits and points of view remain their own, as Aliki believes in minding her own business. A friendship that spans close to 70 years is the result, and looking back yields a past full of wonderful memories. Politicians, reformers and suchlike are always giving advice, and nothing gets more on my nerves than having a total stranger telling me what’s good for me.

I know that smoking, booze, drugs, gambling and loose women are all bad for one, but the last thing I want to hear is that they’re bad for me – even from a friend. People are always dispensing advice, but how can you advise another how to act unless you know  the other better than they know themselves? We can only guess at the thoughts and emotions of others, yet many bores dispense advice like confetti at an Italian wedding. Needless to say, politicians are among those who dish out free advice at the drop of a hat, as are club bores.

The present occupant of the White House is always telling us what we should do, but he’s among the phoniest ever. This is why I love Warren Harding, the greatest American president, who died 100 years ago this month. Harding was not only a great president, he also followed the worst, Woodrow Wilson. I’ll get to the great Harding in a jiffy, but first a few thoughts on the dastardly Wilson.

The Princeton professor who became president never came to terms with his mediocrity. Instead, he jailed critics of his war, suspended civil liberties and managed to act like a dictator until a stroke sidelined him and his ghastly wife took over and ran the country. It was banana republic stuff until in 1921 the great Harding was inaugurated and things returned to normal. Harding liked women and people and drink, and won more than 60 per cent of the vote, something only Richard Nixon, another great president, managed in 1972, Lyndon Johnson in 1964, and FDR in 1936. FDR and Johnson are not my cup of tea; Harding and Nixon are my real heroes.

Harding is always ranked near the bottom by the lefty press because he was conservative, liked people and kept mistresses, things those who write for, say, the Bagel Times, would like to be able to do but are physically too repellent to achieve. Hence, Harding ranks low. He also fathered a child shortly before winning the White House, which is a healthy thing to do, at least as far as I’m concerned. Better a child in a big house with plenty of staff than in a crowded tenement already full of screaming hungry children. Am I right or am I right?

Harding died in office and millions lined the railroad tracks to honour his corpse as it was being brought back from California to DC. Now some idiots in the press say that Harding was not a great president. I say: who elected the idiots to tell us what they think? Wilson told a major lie and split the nation when he entered the war, all for personal glory, whereas Harding united the people afterwards with his bonhomie, honesty and good nature. The great military expert, Professor Taki, is adamant about one thing: had America not entered the great conflict in 1917, there would have been no communism in Russia nor Nazism in Germany afterwards.

Never mind. The past is the past and there’s nothing we can do about it, except to try to not repeat some of the stuff that harmed mankind. But here I am sounding like a bore giving advice. A young friend of my son who has been reading me for a very long time asked for some advice only last week at a party. He’s in his late thirties, lives with an American gal in Athens and wanted to know which city I’d pick to live in if I were in his situation. I used to know his mother, who at one point was the prettiest girl in Athens, and he’s very rich. Here it is: Paris has totally changed from the party place it used to be, so the city of light is out. London’s weather is known to make some people used to the sun quite miserable, and it is very crowded to boot. New York is filthy, dangerous and for masochists only. I told him that Rome’s his best bet, and now my son tells me Rome is his buddy’s next destination. Mine is a grand sailing boat and perhaps some Hollywood floozies.