Dog days of summer

On board S/Y Bushido

Sailing away from St Tropez, I felt a bit like Lot; I asked the wife to take one last look, but Alexandra, alas, remained unsalty and very much in command. Portofino was the next stop, probably the most beautiful of tiny ports anywhere in the Med, green and very much up and down rather than sideways. I got off and began to climb a small path snaking around grand villas to the top, passed the magnificent Hotel Splendido, where once upon a time I took a German countess for a dirty weekend, and she came down with the flu, leaving me alone in the bar talking to strangers. I heard some Cole Porter tunes playing and went in. The place was unchanged and as grand as ever but for one thing: the people. Never have I seen such ghastly proles, except for the day before in St Tropez, that is.

I know, I know, snobbery is nothing but bad manners trying to pass themselves off as good taste, but today’s rich are of such cartoonish crudeness and vulgarity that they make any definition of snobbery redundant. Oy veh! That evening I took my crew along with my guests to dinner in the port, and had some delicious wine picked by my cook. The owner’s smile should have warned me. The bill could have covered the first year of the Iraq war. And speaking of the war, I thought Greece winning the European Cup in 2004 was the greatest win upset ever. But what about the Iraqis winning the Asian Cup? The Ancient Greeks, in their infinite wisdom, would stop fighting during Olympic competition. But try and say that to the Iraqis blowing each other up in that miserable place.