Racket you cannot “network in”. All the big money I know is old money. Even the biggest! What do you know about Italian silk walls? Are you good enough to play someone’s Stradivarius? Does Christie’s call YOU? Are you registered with the police on Cap Ferrat? Do you understand hallux valgus?
Etc. It is a bizarre world. Every time I go hang out it costs me thousands. Usually something like one of them fancies themselves a jewelry designer and makes some pieces in a home studio, then hands them out to friends at the social occasion to wear...and of course purchase. At the very least to bring an appropriate vintage—it must of course be a collector vintage that someone is unlikely to already have, because each family has at least one wine nut who lives the cellars andnis really nothing more than a thinly-veiled alcoholic dilettante. You’ve got to do something though, right?
Guy I was playing snooker with put his cue right through an original Warhol, and we laughed about it—he because he spilled lemonade on his custom Lobb’s, I because, as Capt. Picard once said, “sometimes you just have to bow to the absurd”. Of course everything was insured. Twice!
Or how about the time I had to drive someone’s brand-new Bentley, at the time 1 of 2 of that model, out of the ditch? His wife got liquored up and went for a drive around the estate (miles), and ended up stuck in the forest, off the road and in 2 feet of snow. We had a big party to celebrate the event, culminating in me driving it out, assisted by a tow from a guy with a new G-class “winter beater”. The ensuing private photo session (there is always one) was absurdity worthy of a Bloomsbury caper.
In Monaco I am always invited because I have never lost at a game of Padrida. Ever. Like my wife at Risk, I cannot lose. Curiosities are always welcome, and now I have ingratiated myself.
In other places I have been invited by pure accident. It used to be that everywhere I went, people would look at me in reverence, whisper behind my back, get shy and run away, you name it. It was insisted that I attend various social functions with heads of state, etc. I actually went to some, to find out wtf. I thought it was because I was good-looking, cultured, articulate, was seen at some of the right places/events, and had some family.
WRONG! Holy hubris! It turns out that I am the doppelganger of one of the greatest and most beloved footballers in history—and the same age, athletic build, etc. It is effing uncanny. Everyone thought I was him at first! Of course I immediately disabused people of their false beliefs, but by then I was “in”. The resemblance was the curiosity, and I guess I have been interesting enough to stand on my own. Those types don’t get to meet many ordinary, but independent, people, and many found me refreshing in a way.
There are some good times to be had, but I try to limit my exposure. Frankly, I can’t afford it. I remember somebody wanted me to rent the apartment next door because I knew food, kept my mouth shut, and their dogs loved me. It was a mere €150k per month. Utilities included.
Also, it’s stultifying. I do things they would/could never do, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. I try not to remember any information, although the one thing impossible to forget is where the smoking hot mistress is kept near the presidential palace.
One thing I would like to get out of all that is to hang out with Gal Gadot, in the Wonder Woman costume, with her acting in full character as the powerful innocent—almost as powerful and innocent as my wife.
It feels good to unburden myself of some of this. What a bizarre life.
See you all at market open for the xmas bonus.