None of this would have happened if I had accepted my neighbor’s invitation to dine with a Swiss billionaire banker, or B. (Sorry, real life). He’s an old friend, BB, who’s unusually Swiss. He caresses women, stalks them, stalks them, or Afabs, as the silly young men of today call them. Bose, unfortunately, is now going to my head, and as the song says, it lingers like a painful crunch for at least a few days. I boxed early the next day, so I chose to watch the 1949 classic, Iwo Jima sandsand ignore the Swiss Bb.
The movie was made in 1949 and starred the greatest of them all, John Wayne, fortunately he’s no longer with us to see what our beloved America has turned into. The movie is very patriotic and all that, gung-ho Marines charging Mount Suribachi, but it never acknowledges the Japanese soldiers who were bombed from the air and sea for months on end and died defending what they considered to be a man. Holy Japanese soil. I suppose in 1949 Pearl Harbor, where a few thousand sailors died, was still raw, but the 130,000 women and children burned in Tokyo, courtesy of Curtis Lemai’s bombing campaign, and the 200,000 dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki not counted. The film does not show the glimmer of bravery of Japanese defenders dying for a squalid landscape far from home.
Well, Japan, Hungary and Poland are the only three countries I respect at present. The rest are ruled by brutality, as in Africa, or in the case of inhumane Europe and America, by the whims of Silicon Valley. I was explaining this while having lunch with Boris–no, not the blonde, but an Eglon graduate who attended that good school with my daughter–when a sarcastic and nervous woman hysterically resented what I was saying. . I had never seen her before and she was either British with an American accent or American playing the British. If I hadn’t stayed home and watched the movie, I wouldn’t have explained the combative virtues of Bushido and I wouldn’t have resented it. I remained calmer than the seals of the Arctic Ocean, which at least flutter their fins to express feelings, but the unknown woman insisted that I was a Neanderthal. I take that as a huge compliment, and given the fact that the insect was a female, I just kept talking as if nothing had happened.
It’s amazing: a private conversation in a restaurant, can lead to some crazy left-wing jokes and trying to get her attention for five seconds. Perhaps my choice was Margaret Court, as opposed to the bullying, self-righteous and generous Serena Williams, as the greatest tennis player ever that got her off the ground. Or was that when I said BLM is the biggest financial scam in America? Escorted out of the building, my friend and I wondered what had happened to our supposedly civilized world, when you couldn’t even make an opinion without some bogus joke and being called a fascist.
A teacher is imprisoned in Ireland after refusing to use transitive pronouns; that Paris Troy who looks like Ian Hislop, including his quad chin, severely insults Boris Johnson on air; The Vogue magazineThe editor complains that he can’t stop a taxi because of the color of his skin. And Chips Shannon’s memoirs finally prove that every Tory party that has ever lived has been gay. Nice to be back in London again.
But then the queen dies and the loss sets the record straight. I happen to be in viewer When the news came, William Moore, Freddie Gray and I set out to drown out our sorrows. Wine affected me more than Will or Freddy. And he brought back the precious memory of February 1952, in a boarding school in America, when Reverend Gold, at breakfast prayer, announced the death of George VI, and the accession of Queen Elizabeth II. And here you are in viewer Offices when the life of that great king receded.
Exactly 22 years ago, I was invited to Highgrove for the lunch that the King now offers to King Constantine of Greece. This was the current Queen’s first time acting as a hostess, and she greeted me with a conscientious smile. (It was about a lady I was going out with at the time.) Lord Black, our then-owner, was speaking with the Queen and told me to come. This is the only time I have met Her Majesty. Wine flowed – we were only three tables out of eight – and then guests were invited to inspect the garden. I missed it because I was playing badminton cricket nearby. When I arrived late and was a little drunk, the Beaufort players let me have it. My excuse was “I was having lunch with the Queen”. Abuse has been raised. But for once I was telling the truth. I was rude to the future king in ignoring his invitation to inspect his garden. But at least I’ve met the greatest kings ever, and that’s something I won’t soon forget.