Isle of Ischia
On a bright, windy June morning the church bells of this beautiful island rang out in welcome to the most egregious concourse of sailing boats to have arrived off its shores since Commodore Thomas Troubridge sailed into the bay of San Angelo in 1799. Troubridge, who under the command of Lord Nelson had been dispatched to quell an island revolt, had brought great distinction to the family, a distinction upheld by his family for 200 years until in a moment of madness ‘Poor Tom Troubridge’ was lured into marriage by the little known but highly ambitious daughter of an Australian librarian and an Austrian POW guard, Marie Christine Reibnitz, presently known as Princess Pushy and then some. Needless to say, the liaison with the Australo-Austrian bitterly disappointed the people of Ischia and simultaneously consigned the name of Troubridge to a cheap celebrity but nevertheless watery grave. The Ischians, however, are a forgiving lot, and since Marie Christine found another sucker, the Troubridge name has been restored to its proper place.
Thus on that bright and windy morning last week the crowds gathered to watch the annual Pug’s Club regatta, with enough moolah in that bay to pay off the Greek national debt. The big favourite and defending champion was the billionaire Bob Miller in his transatlantic record-setting Mari-Cha III. The evening before the race we met on board the magnificent 240-foot Talitha, owned by Mark Getty and acting as the committee boat, where Mark laid down the rules, the course and the handicaps. It’s just as well that everyone was drunk because Commodore Tim Hoare took exception to the generosity of the handicap to the defending champion and threatened to boycott the race. That is when the president of Pug’s, Nick Scott, changed the subject and brought up club business. It was the smartest thing he’s ever done, as Sir Bob Geldof later put it, but in far more colourful language.
The business was easy to deal with, but extremely unpleasant. It concerned the appalling behaviour of a man towards HRH Princess Marie-Chantal of Greece, wife of a Pug member, at Arkie Busson’s charity party the week before. The man, the art dealer Larry Gagosian, is certainly not a member, but someone who shall remain nameless had the gall to put him up for membership. All 17 of us blackballed him at once, which tied the record for black balls held until then by Jeffrey Epstein, child molester and friend of Prince Andrew. What had the egregious Gagosian done? While looking for his seat he had brushed the Greek princess aside and had failed to excuse himself. Princess Marie-Chantal may look fragile but she knows how to defend her territory and put him firmly in his place. Gagosian didn’t know what had hit him, as in his own backyard, the Big Bagel, billionaires are allowed to push poorer people and women aside — in fact, it is a sine qua non of having new money.
Gagosian is known as the man without qualities, but pushing a lady in full view of the Duchess of Cambridge is a first even in the Bronx. After the 17 black balls had been retrieved from the 18th-century Fabergé box, a member was heard to say that ‘where the princess comes from is a far, far better place than that man has ever known’. But back to the race.
Commodore Hoare did turn out to have a point. Bob Miller slaughtered us, although Tiger Lily, owned and captained by Queen’s Roger Taylor, gave him a run for his moolah. Bushido won a great victory by not coming in last, but next to, followed by the hara-kiri handicapped Commodore Hoare’s gallant vessel. The champagne party on board the winner’s boat was a tame affair, as the Getty party on the first night and the Taylor on the second had turned most of us into zombies. The racing, the relentless sun, Frankfurt, and E coli had aged me by ten years. My friend Leopold Bismarck wrapped me up in a German Imperial Army flag (1903–1919), its iron cross on the upper-left corner helping to restore my balance and equilibrium.
This has not been a good year for me. I have tasted defeat everywhere, in judo, in sailing and, of course, my Stalingrad took place on 8 June, after my Asprey’s party. I am as ashamed of it as if I had been caught stealing from a church collection box, but I have never kept secrets from Speccie readers. Late that evening, Spectator chairman Andrew Neil and the sainted editor Fraser Nelson accompanied me to the Brompton Oratory where Cardinal Gaetani-Lovatelli was waiting. We waited for my fiancée, the deputy editor of The Spectator, but after two hours a messenger arrived with a letter to me about having to miss the wedding because of her mother. I was too ashamed to tell my two witnesses, but the Cardinal, an old friend of my family, said it all as he walked off in a huff. ‘Va Fanculo’, or words to that effect.
Humiliated and destroyed, I walked down the Fulham Road and guess what. I ran into Tim Hanbury with by far the two most beautiful girls in England, Georgie Wells and Lily Robinson, the latter dressed only in a towel. I don’t know why Lady Luck suddenly decided to favour me but I am engaged to both of them — as a Greek Orthodox I am allowed three wives — and I consider myself the luckiest man on this planet. So there.
Comments