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The online magazine for independent conservatives, edited by Taki Theodoracopulos

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Creature Comforts

I’m afraid that Pug’s Club “Turd of the Year” award went unanimously to the ghastly Andy Murray, he of the Centre Court primal screams and primate fist pumping. Perhaps his mother, who looks straight out of central casting of a Hollywood stage mum, and then some, should file his teeth down a bit and make him look less like Dracula. Better yet, he should be forced to watch Federer in action and learn a thing or two about behaviour on court. (One hundred hours of videos, and then one hundred more.) I know the hucksters who now run sport require announcers to be cheerleaders, but praising someone for acting like a blood-thirsty mullah extorting the faithful to kill infidels–and on Wimbledon’s centre court to boot–is simply pathetic. Dear old Dan Maskell, where are you now that we really need you? (My word, this is intolerable..)

Sport can at times resemble poetry. The infallible test of genuine poetry is that it forces us to recall emotions we ourselves have had. Sport evokes similar feelings. The split second state of grace which brought victory long ago, as faint a memory as the scent of a girl long forgotten. And, of course, victory is more often than not followed by a low, a gentle melancholy, not that today’s professionals--in the extremely unlikely event any of them would ever read this--would know what I’m talking about. That’s why I was happy to see Nadal and Federer play and act the way they did in one of Wimbledon’s greatest final.

Sport took second place last week, what with some wonderful parties taking place, and not a small amount of gambling. Arki Busson’s engagement to the beautiful Uma Thurman made for one great night, and how nice it is to discover a genuine Hollywood star who is the opposite in real life to the roles she plays on screen. Uma is nice, normal and friendly, which is a hell of a lot more than the third raters who pass for celebrities nowadays. The following night was the Bismarck bash for Mario Testino, a man I was reliably informed was a famous photographer, but unlike other famous photographers, was extremely polite when introduced to a poor little Greek boy. After four nights on the trot of seeing the dawn brake, I was feeling rather poorly for the Speccie summer party, especially as my fiancé (sooner than you think to be Mrs. Taki) Mary Wakefield was nowhere to be seen. But the poor little Hellene is not as foolish as he looks when tired and emotional, which I was throughout last week. I had the beautiful 23-year-old Rose Hanbury with me–soon to become a major marchioness–which helped save me my pride and dignity. It’s been downhill ever since. The gambling, I mean.

The problem is the people. Never have I seen such slobs except, I am told, they exist in Las Vegas. They scream at the roulette ball, make fun of the poor girl who swirls it, loudly complain about their luck, and rub it in when they get lucky. Worse, much worse, they look so awful. I used to lose my allowance regularly at Aspinall’s in the old days, but it was almost a pleasure as I lost it to friends and to gentlemen. Thank God I no longer play chemin-de-fer. I couldn’t bear to lose a single hand to one of these lowlifes who now pass as rich customers. Why is it that no one can explain to me why new money has to look so awful?

Is it because they learn from films? Explicitly expressing one’s superiority to one’s financial inferiors is how Hollywood portrays the rich and famous. Or used to, in the past. Perhaps these bums learned from Hollywood. But explicitly expressing one’s superiority to those less fortunate is also how societies disappear. Not in my lifetime, but there is no way a society like the Saudi one can survive. Too few multi-billionaires treating the rest like dogs, and I’d hate to be a dog in the Middle East. Here, in beautiful? London, the cops are busy apologising to Muslims about an advert showing a puppy sitting in an officer’s hat. Our Muslim brethren (yours, not mine) see man’s best friend as unclean. But my beagle, Gypsy, and my Jack Russell, Benito, sleep with the mother of my children every night in the same bed, and although they’re both randy as hell, I don’t mind. They’re much cleaner than most people I’ve been coming into physical contact with lately. And don’t forget Leona Helmsley, once known as the Queen of Mean for saying only little people pay taxes, has just left her $8 billion dollar fortune to dogs. Good for you Leona, you were a ghastly woman while around, but you made up for it after death.

The reason that Muslims among us are always so angry is to be found in dog studies. In the April issue of the Journal of Social and Personal Relationships, it was found that those students who were most strongly attached to their dogs never showed high levels of anxiety or avoidance to the truth. In other words, people who love and have dogs are less pissed off than those who think of them as unclean. Those who don’t like dogs are unbalanced, angry, likely to kill people, and so on. And here I’m willing to bet anyone any amount that none of those who go around stabbing their fellow man have a man’s best friend. If my two children weren’t as wonderful as they are, I would gladly do a Leona just to spite you know who.

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