Spectator, August 12, 2006
A great two-week cruise was marred by the mother of my children’s insistence that I was the most unpopular person on board. This was ridiculous. All I did was torture Sascha Bismarck, aged ten, by throwing him overboard at every opportunity because of his lazy self-entitlement, lock Natasha Grenfell in her cabin for the best part of a morning (she’s a chain-smoker and I had a hangover) and turn off the air-conditioning while the port holes were shut tight when the outside temperature reached 37 degrees. (It was supposed to be a joke.) The last one did backfire, I admit, because even the most gracious guest, Leopold Bismarck, said something about preferring the conditions of Stalingrad to those on board Bushido.
Never mind. Being a democratic sort of chap, I demanded a vote during the last night’s festivities in Hydra. Being the only candidate, I suggested that including Nick Scott in the ballot would make it a fairer election, and although there was some grumbling, Nick and I became the two candidates for Mr Unpopular on board Bushido 2006. Ten guests and five crew had the right to vote. Everyone wrote their choice down, put it inside a large Panama hat, and the results were read out by the captain, Regis, a man so small he makes Napoleon look like an NBA star forward. Caspar Bismarck, a Harrow scholar aged 14, marked down the votes as announced by the midget. To cut a long story short, there were 34 votes for Nick Scott, and 11 for yours truly. Needless to say, Nick made accusations of fraud and ballot-stuffing. The captain was relieved of his duties and Tassilo Bismarck, aged 17 — whose honesty was considered above reproach — was brought in as a neutral for the recount. It got even better. Scott was voted the most unpopular by 37 people, whereas I remained the same, at 11.
Now rigging votes goes back a long way. I remember when poor old Saddam won 99 per cent of the vote a couple of years before his downfall — ‘How quick they forget,’ were his last words before he was pulled out of his hole like a scared rabbit — not to mention my old friend Uncle Joe Stalin. In my case, it looked bad, but the vote was fair. What surprised me was Nick’s reaction. For an Old Etonian, an officer and a gentleman, his resistance to the people’s choice was not only disgraceful, it was also petty, inane, peevish and ill-humoured. In fact, he reminded me of my Jack Russell, Benito. And it got worse. He first threw himself overboard fully clothed, moolah and credit cards included, and then, having been fished out, he began to resemble Woody Allen — unable to control his fluttering hands and spasmodic stops and starts. Like Woody facing a Gestapo baddie, Nick jabbered nonsensically about fraudulent practices and the democratic process. It was all for nought. So he threw himself overboard once again, except this time no one bothered to fish him out. Except for some Greeks, who offered to help for a price. (Scott, being a Scot, declined.)
As Al Capone famously said, you get more done with a smile and a gun than with just a smile. I agree. There was no way I would lose a vote on board my own boat, and my only problem is that I would like to find out who among the crew voted against me. Remember, we were ten guests and five crew. I got 11 votes, so there is a Judas among them. A keelhaul awaits the bum. Needless to say, the party lasted until dawn, when we sailed towards the mainland and our goodbyes. Nick did not get much sleep. He was later discovered in the engine room trying to remove a vital part of the generator, as asinine and childish a trick as Paris Hilton’s, when she dumped a bottle of syrup on a girl who used to date her ex, whomever he may be. But for the mother of my children’s ridiculous claim against me, and my subsequent validation, it was one of the funniest times I’ve had on water for many a year. I was truly sad to see my friends leave, and, even if I say so myself, I do miss Nick, the most unpopular man ever to sail on Bushido.
Mind you, sailing ain’t what it used to be. Hi-tech carbon and Nomex machines crewed by 30 professionals bear no passing resemblance to gentlemanly sailing boats of yesteryear, except that both have a hull, masts, sails and winches. Bushido is a replica of an old sailer, and in turn suffers when compared with modern racing boats. She is slow but very, very comfortable, with large bathrooms and even larger showers for each cabin, great deck space and a saloon above water which Donald Trump would find adequate. She does not have water ballasts, wing masts in order to reduce aerodynamic drag, or carbon sails and a retractable keel. But she has the most important thing a boat can have: she’s a head-turner, which is why I built her in the first place. After all, the primary purpose of a boat, like a woman, is to be beautiful.