London: If cheating is the cancer of sport, losing has to be its halitosis. I stunk out the joint in Amsterdam last week, and even managed to be thrown (a first) for my troubles. Winners, for some strange reason, never have an excuse. Losers tend to. Mine is that my opponent was born after the war, whereas I was born before it.
The rules are that one fights opponents within five years of one’s birthday, either way. My opponents were double that, but I should have registered an objection before the matches began. Some did and stayed out. I did not. I arrogantly thought I could win, and suffered the consequences. End of story and of my career in judo tournaments. It’s sad but normal. Sportsmen don’t always go out on top. They leave after being humiliated.
My only solace was Tom Holland’s diary in the Spectator, Jeremy’s use of the word anthropophagism, and Melissa Kite’s search for a 1956-era cottage. Oh, yes — I almost forgot: Freddy Gray’s story on Evgeny Lebedev (the 35-year-old Russian, who along with his KGB-man turned oligarch father, owns the Independent newspapers, the London Evening Standard and the TV channel London Live) had me dying for more revelations, but I could feel the libel lawyers’ hot breath on our deputy editor’s shoulders. My unsolicited advice to this Russian social climber is to strip naked... and then join the gay and lesbian parade in Greenwich Village.
The irony about this Lebedev father-son combo is the double standard that is applied where Nazism is concerned as opposed to communism. The fact that Joseph Stalin and Mao Zedong murdered 10 times the numbers that Hitler did does not make them any nicer, but they do come off far less badly than the Führer. Lebedev senior worked for the KGB in London. Had, say, an ex-Gestapo man come to London in 1970 and proceeded to buy newspapers, would people like Stephen Fry and Piers Morgan kiss his ass as fervently as they do Lebedev’s?
And speaking of oligarchs, what about the story of the two returned Picassos, and the accusations by the artist’s step-daughter that the paintings had been stolen from her? They were later sold to a Russian who has gallantly returned them to her. The king of fertiliser is Dmitry Rybolovlev, and I had the bad luck to live next to the mansion he was renovating in the Big Bagel. He is reputed to be worth $8 billion. He’s known as a very taciturn man, which doesn’t surprise me as he speaks only Russian.
Mr Rybolovlev got on my bad side when he offered close to 100 million big ones for an arts centre in Gstaad. But what we need in Gstaad is not art but better manners. Nevertheless Mr Rybolovlev went big time into art, buying $2 billion worth of paintings. Bouvier is known as the “king of the freeports”, high-tech warehouses in Geneva, Luxembourg and Singapore, where he stashes the art of collectors who trade privately with tax advantages. Bouvier sold two Picassos, owned by the artist’s step-daughter, to the Russian. The step-daughter was allegedly not in on the deal.
The Russian personally returned them to her, but she never bothered to turn up. This I find very strange. Even stranger is Bouvier speaking to the media and calling himself a gentleman. All I know is that if Ali Baba was in the art business he would have gone broke long ago. He was too honest and so were his 40 thieves.
And now for some good news. Pugs club finally has a Mistress of Chamber, the honorary title whose appointment is extremely prestigious, and one that both Lady McCartney and Naomi Campbell aspired to. The honour went to Demi Moore, who was delighted to accept. That pleased our president, Nick Scott, but he was not so pleased about the semi-nude Demi at Bob Geldof’s wedding blast last week.
But now Pugs finally has a mistress and a beautiful one at that. The four original members are all going to Seville this weekend, for a friend’s 60th. Commodore Tim Hoare, President Gimlet, head of admissions Count Bismarck and yours truly will be attending bullfights and other such amusements come Saturday. A bullfight beats watching two artsy-fartsy types feuding over Picassos any day of the week. Ole!
By arrangement with the Spectator
