Thirty years later the Greeks have managed to bring the European Union to the brink of collapse—again, not necessarily a bad thing, but looked upon by bureaucrooks in Brussels as the greatest disaster to befall Europe since the Black Plague. Recently, a rather dumb and pompous Euro MP remonstrated with me for expressing delight at the prospect. Pigs that feed in the trough would, wouldn’t they?

The Greeks, however inadvertently, might bring down the whole shebang. That is the good news. The bad is that the rich-as-hell Germans and the garlic-smelling French are fighting as never before to keep the pseudodemocratic union going. The reason is simple: The Greeks are in hock to German and French banks to the tune of one trillion euros. The global elites who believe in Brussels and seek to reduce nations to “ethno-cultural enclaves in a new world order run by these same bloodless bureaucrats,” as Pat Buchanan rightly put it, are as undemocratic as they come. In fact, they make the Greek colonels look like Thomas Jefferson by comparison. Countries that rejected certain E.U. treaties, such as Ireland, the Czech Republic, Denmark, Sweden, and even France, were told in no uncertain terms that they would have to vote again, and again if necessary, until the will of Brussels was met. If that’s democracy, I’m Monica Lewinsky.

In my recent peregrinations around Europe it was obvious that the euro was never purely an economic construct. It was a political one. It was to ensure total control for the bureaucrats uniting 500 million people speaking 30 different languages under little ole Brussels. Well, they got close to pulling it off, the tiny tinpot dictators, but then the Hellenes screwed up.

If the Greeks had any brains, of course, which they don’t (they are like people on welfare in Britain—too well off to get off), they would quit the European Union, default, restore the drachma, and watch every manufacturer in Europe and America rush to establish factories in Athens and its environs. Billions in tourism alone would enrich Greek coffers. But as I said, they are too weak and too dumb to do it. Like a mistress who has gotten used to her monthly stipend and is too lazy to go out and find new blood, the Greeks will now tighten their belts, blame Germany and America, and go to the beach until mid-September, when things will really get hot.

The great oracle of Delphi was typically ambivalent when I asked her whether the European Union would survive. She gave me three choices: The first was that the rich countries will prop up the poor ones by continuing to bail them out until . . . That’s when her voice trailed away. The second was that the euro might be abandoned, and the rich northern countries who avoid the beach will set up their own currency. The third was that the PIGS—Portugal, Italy, Spain, and Greece—will get their act together through reforms and pay back their debt. The oracle laughed out loud as she pronounced this third choice, but by now she was quite stoned.

So there you have it, dear readers. A few farsighted men got together in Rome more than 50 years ago and decided to turn Europe into a free-trade zone in order to avoid war in the future. It was a good idea, but like many good ideas the principle of peaceful trade and cooperation was hijacked by fat, faceless men who believed they could achieve power not at the barrel of a gun but through stealth, lies, and doublespeak. They flooded Europe with African and Muslim immigrants who refused to integrate, sold out Christianity to Allah, and rejected any loyalty to the land and people whence they came. Now the chickens are coming home to roost, and I, for one, am delighted.

But I am not getting my hopes up yet. The faceless ones are vicious and sly. They have the bankers, the press, and most of the politicians on their side. The pro-E.U. propaganda has drowned out the few responsible traditionalists who believe in individual freedom and their nations. My only hope is my fellow Greeks. Perhaps I will lead a midnight coup myself—but when was the last time a yacht sailed into Piraeus and Athens surrendered?

This article first appeared in the August 2010 issue of Chronicles: A Magazine of American Culture.

Murray’s tears were nothing new for the Australian public and the millions watching on the idiot box. Just one year ago to the day, the very same Roger Federer had wept unashamedly during the ceremony while addressing the winner, Rafael Nadal. I had watched that final, too, and was surprised to see the most successful tennis player ever cry like a baby in front of thousands of his fans. What is going on here? I said to myself. Have tennis players turned into Hollywood types? Is this genuine emotion, or is it shameless spin? Have their agents instructed them to cry in order to raise the price of their endorsements?

The answer to this is simple. Tennis players are following the cult of sentimentality as men in all walks of life—politics, the arts, even crime—are doing. Tough guys may not dance nowadays, but they sure know how to cry, at least in public. Playing the sympathy card is the equivalent of what long ago was known as the stiff upper lip, with today’s difference being the theatrical prop of the wobbling lower lip. And so it goes, sport fans. You lose, you cry, and it snatches moral victory from the hard-won triumph of the winner. Actually, it is a shameless new low in spin, first established by the great draft dodger himself, William Jefferson Clinton, a man who could well up at the sight of a pregnant prostitute on her way to court.

The birthplace of the stiff upper lip was Sparta, which was also my mother’s birthplace, although the latter fact is neither here nor there. “With your shield or on it,” was the order a Spartan mother issued to her departing warrior son. In other words, come back a winner, or be brought back dead. Then again, I remember my mother wailing when my father went off to war, a very un-Spartan behavior, but what the hell—she had become Americanized, I suppose, although this was back in 1940. Now everybody cries, and tears have become the commodity that does not lose its value, no matter what. One of the greatest presidents of recent years, Richard Nixon, kept a straight face and a stiff upper lip when he was forced to relinquish the presidency after a congressional coup d’etat, as did his Veep, Spiro Agnew.

Compare that with the present British prime minister, Gordon Brown. He recently wept on TV when talking about the death of his infant daughter—she died ten days old, never having left the hospital—but this came after hours of negotiations with the BBC on how to overcome the widespread perception that he is dour and remote. It does make one wonder. No parent can fail to sympathize with Brown losing a child, but how many would talk about it in a political interview in front of millions? But Brown is a politician desperately seeking public approval and about to go to a national election, so even the death of a child is fair game.

I suppose it is only by emoting in public that so many people today believe you have any heart at all. The rot really took off after the death of Princess Di, when an ugly mood threatened the British monarchy because of the perception that they were cold and heartless from their absence of public displays of grief. It was only after the Queen showed some signs of sorrow that the danger was diffused. This had its roots in the therapy culture, which tells us that it’s bad to repress emotion. “Let it all hang out” was a 60’s curse, and it has now become a way of life. Everyone cries, starting with soldiers, an unheard-of phenomenon. This has the pernicious effect not only of devaluing real feelings such as grief but of elevating histrionics such as self-pity and narcissism. Hence our society’s obsession with “self-esteem.”

Emotional incontinence has turned men into wimps. The new man has to be caring and unafraid to burst into tears. But I’ve got news for you. It’s all a sham. Good men were and are caring without having to show it. Stoicism and emotional restraint are superior to cheap histrionics. Touchy-feely types are like Clinton, a dime a dozen, and as dishonest as they come.

This article first appeared in the April 2010 issue of Chronicles: A Magazine of American Culture.

In a speech delivered last November in Texas, the sainted editor of this journal zeroed in on Goldman Sachs and its head honcho, Lloyd Blankfein.  He is the bum who helped inflate and then profited from a bubble that burst and cost tens of millions of Americans their jobs, incomes, savings, and home equity.  For his part, Blankfein has not only refused to apologize but, after repaying the company’s initial $10 billion bailout allotment, pledged $500 million over five years to help 10,000 small businesses.  It was a crumb thrown to the hungry for a public-relations exercise.  A real contribution would be in the high billions and aimed directly at taxpayers.

But that is not the way of the banks.  When America emerged from the Great Depression, a tightly regulated banking system was in effect.  The first big wave of deregulation, under Ronald Reagan, led to the savings-and-loan crisis of the mid-1980’s.  Taxpayers ended up footing the bill to the tune of $300 billion in today’s money.  Once liberated from regulation, bankers’ greed went into overdrive.  Wall Street Sammy Glicks invented new ways to screw the public and further enrich themselves.  For example: A mortgage company would loan $500,000 to a borrower who had no means to repay, then turn around and sell the loan to Wall Street investment houses.  The latter would then resell it—for a tidy profit—to hedge funds as a bond.  The hedgies would then buy a form of insurance against the bond defaulting, called credit-default swaps, and so on down the line.  Eventually, the game was up, but by then the bankers, starting with Goldman Sachs, had enriched themselves beyond imagination.

When the you-know-what hit the fan, Uncle Sam, using your tax dollars, stepped in and wiped them clean.  Then, after a few months the Blankfeins of this world went back to what they know best.  The trick is called innovative banking.  In reality, all the Goldman Sachs innovations are for one purpose only: to enrich themselves by ripping off the public.  Which is easy to do, as Goldman Sachs executives sooner or later find themselves as heads of the Fed or the SEC, depending on how naive the yokel in the White House happens to be.  Robert Rubin, dean of the Goldman Sachs Democrats, served as Bill Clinton’s treasury secretary and was on the board of Citigroup, which pocketed a $300 billion government handout after suffering humongous losses on subprime mortgage investments.  Rubin made $115 million for guiding Citigroup through the process of losing all that moolah.  Instead of going to jail he resigned with honors and flew off into the sunset in his private jet.

Among the more disgusting people in a group that defies description as far as ugliness is concerned is Richard Fuld, the last CEO of Lehman Brothers.  Fuld’s ego had filled the once-respected house to beyond capacity, turning it into a fire hazard of pride and greed.  Fuld was a bully and was known to threaten to beat up people.  Actually, he’s a very homely, simian-looking Jew who couldn’t punch his way out of a nursery, but such are the joys of Wall Street legends.  At his peak at Lehman Brothers, Fuld was the biggest lender on earth, without having anywhere near the capital on hand to protect the house if the loans went bad.  He retired with a fortune of upward of a half a billion dollars, five houses, and an art collection that he immediately transferred to his wife’s name in case of lawsuits.

Which brings me to Stevie Cohen, as this particular slob is known among the hedgies.  Cohen is worth six billion dollars, which he made during the late 90’s and up to the crash.  He is a Wall Street trader and hedge-fund manager.  His company is based in Connecticut and goes by the name SAC Capital.  I met him before he made it and thought him shady, to say the least.  Just before Christmas, the New York Post led with the following headline: “‘Hedge’ honcho a ‘thief.’”  Cohen has been accused by his ex-wife of insider trading and is being investigated.  As of this writing, there is not much more I can say except that he had already been investigated for insider trading.

Greenspan, Cohen, Blankfein, Rubin, Fuld—the list goes on.  If ever you hear of some Anglo-Saxon name taking over Wall Street, make sure to plunge in.  But don’t hold your breath.

This article first appeared in the February 2010 issue of Chronicles: A Magazine of American Culture.

Yes, you guessed it, dear readers, it was the opening session of Crooks & Murderers, Inc., a.k.a. the United Nations.  Never have so many tin-pot dictators, major chiselers, lunch-bucket pilferers, and out-and-out killers arrived en masse as they did this year, and it was my bad luck to find myself in close proximity to the rabble. Central Park was closed to joggers as the French head hobbit, one Sarkozy, decided to take some exercise.  Ditto for certain parts of Park Avenue, as African child molesters needed to go shopping to spend some of their blood money.  Every single cop was out in force trying to make life miserable for us taxpayers and comfortable for the onanists from the Dark Continent.  That’s when I lost all desire to abuse the Churchill man and decided to tell you about the world’s most wanted man—the only one, in fact, who’s missing from the vermin who have overrun the place.  None other than Osama bin Laden himself.

It was around 1998, and as usual I was stuck for a column.  I was in Gstaad, sitting in my garden and looking out at the magnificent mountains, when it came to me.  Why not make a bit of trouble for the draft dodger at the White House, just as he was being deposed about Monica Lewinsky?  So I sat down and wrote about Osama bin Laden—Harry, as we friends of his called him—a man who had gone to the Rosey school with my son and who now lived quietly at the Palace Hotel in Gstaad, in the Kandahar suite, just down the road from my humble chalet.  Harry was very rich, but, unlike most of his kind, he was extremely generous.  At the famous White’s club in London, he was known for his generosity and for always picking up the tab at the bar for the rest of the swells.  The English upper classes are notorious for being slow on the trigger when it comes to coughing up, so Harry was by far the most popular of members.  He dressed at Anderson & Sheppard, the bespoke tailors who cut his burnoose in the finest silks.  His sandals were made to measure by Lobb, and his beard trimmed weekly by Trumper’s.  He had been proposed as member by the duke of Beaufort and seconded by Lord Charles Churchill, great-nephew of Sir Winston.

But there was more.  Harry Laden had gone to Rosey and had been a member of the best ski team ever, which included J.T. Theodoracopulos, Jean-Claude Killy, Gianni Agnelli, Sir Arnold Lunn, and William F. Buckley, Jr.  Harry was a quiet sort of person, disappearing at times for long periods, but always resurfacing around Ramadan and other religious holidays, except for Yom Kippur.  When I finished the column I e-mailed it to The Spectator and waited for the call.  Which came almost immediately.  “I hope you’re joking,” said my dear and long-suffering editor Liz Anderson.  Once I reassured her that I was, she breathed a sigh of relief, and the piece ran as I had written it.  Then the trouble started.

For the next couple of weeks a lot of Brit journalists got hold of my number and pestered me for more information.  One of them, Peter McKay, an ingenious Scot writing for the Daily Mail, rang up White’s.  “We haven’t seen him lately,” was the hall porter’s even more ingenious reply.  The hacks became convinced they were on to a great scoop.  But I wasn’t talking.  Then it became more serious.  Graydon Carter, editor in chief of Vanity Fair and a good friend of long standing, called me and insisted I spill the beans.  “This will make you almost as famous as he is,” was the way Graydon put it.  But I stood firm.  Vanity Fair then readied two of their greatest bloodhounds to trace Harry in Gstaad, which made me very nervous.  So nervous, in fact, that I came clean.  Carter is still laughing about it.

But there were consequences.  At a grand dinner party in Palm Beach, after September 11, a local grande dame cut me and in a loud voice accused me of being friendly with people who had the blood of 3,000 Americans on their hands.  I stammered something about a joke, but no one was listening.  A member of White’s demanded an apology and an admission of having lied, as he had lost clients after revealing he was a member of the club.  A nice young man by the name of Johnson, known for his documentaries, approached me and asked to do a film on “The Man Who Parties With Osama.”  When I told him it was all a spoof he was crestfallen.  “I’ve spent a fortune in preparing it!” he cried.

So, moral of the story: Terrorists are no joke.  Mind you, after six months, and once again stuck for a story, I did a sequel, but it didn’t come off.  The only journalist to get it the first time was Alexander Cockburn.  The ski team, said Cockburn, didn’t make sense.  Buckley and Taki’s son could not have been in school together, unless the former was retarded, which he was not.  Good for you, Sherlock.

This article first appeared in the November 2009 issue of Chronicles: A Magazine of American Culture.

It might seem politically incorrect to say this, but the Berlin Olympics were the best ever staged, the last time white American and European men and women competed on an equal level with blacks, despite the great feat of Jesse Owens in winning four gold medals. The first games after the war, the 1948 London Olympics, were a festival for pure amateurs, as were the Helsinki and Melbourne games that followed. The best postwar Olympics were the Rome ones (1960). Europe had rebounded from the catastrophe of World War II, and Germany had been invited to compete. I remember them well. The crown prince of Greece, now ex-King Constantine, won a gold in the dragon-class sailing in the bay of Naples. Ari Onassis, the original Greek tycoon, came into the shower room where the prince was cleaning up after he and his crew had been dunked into the filthy waters of Naples—my father was crewing for him—and got into the shower fully clothed, kissing the prince and congratulating him. That night there was a great ball in the palazzo of the duke of Serra di Cassano, with most of Europe’s reigning royals attending. For a 23-year-old, it was quite impressive stuff.

On the field, a blond German, Armin Hary, won the 100-meter dash, the first non-American to win the most prestigious of events since 1928, and an Italian, Livio Berutti, won the 200 meters. The Roma stadium went wild as the Italian led from the start, chased by three African-Americans. Three white American hurdlers came one, two, three in the 400-meter hurdles, led by Glenn Davis, and a young Cassius Clay won the light-heavyweight title in the Palazzetto dello Sport, although an Australian friend of mine by the name of Madigan almost beat him—I was certain he had won—in the semifinal. The grand finale was the Marathon, won by a barefooted Ethiopian sergeant, Abebe Bekila, who smiled all along the route leading into the Borghese gardens and down the Via Veneto, and who rightly received the greatest cheers from the crowd.

The Rome Olympics were my last, although I did attend the judo competition in Athens in 2004. The games became much too big after Rome, much too politicized, and drugs began to play a much too important role. The Cold War saw nation-by-nation medal counts, although counting was against the spirit of the games. In 1984 the Los Angeles games became the first Olympics in which corporate sponsors got their filthy hooks in deep, making the event look like one big advertisement. It’s been downhill ever since. Athlete after athlete has been caught cheating with drugs, and all records are now suspect, as they well should be. In the 2004 Athens Olympics the Greek government spent $12 billion, five percent of the country’s economy. Many of the lavish facilities built so a political party could show off to the world lie empty and unused. In my not-so-humble opinion, the only way to save the games is to do away with them.

To begin with they are much too big and too inclusive. Rhythmic underwater dancing has more to do with entertainment than with sport. Although women’s softball has been eliminated, beach volleyball has not. Watching beautifully built women in tiny bikinis playing on sand has more to do with Playboy than with what the ancient Greeks had in mind. The games, after all, were started because the ancients believed it made their soldiers fighting fit. A foot race in armor was introduced at the 65th Games in 520 b.c. The other three events were running, wrestling, and the pentathlon, which included running and wrestling as well as the discus, javelin, and jumping. In other words, the games represented real life. No synchronized swimming and certainly no Tae Kwan Do, a phony martial art that resembles touch football. (Contestants wear padding and score points by touching the adversary.) Victors back then were given a simple wreath of olive sprays and the statue and victory poem that would be created in their honor back home. They were considered to be blessed by the gods. No Coca-Cola endorsements, no cornflakes contracts, no Nike sponsorships. Only glory.

So here’s Chronicles’ blueprint to save the bloated, cheating, corporate games: First and foremost they have to return to their original site, Olympia, in the northwest Peloponnese, where their spirit lives on. Shaded by olive, pine, and poplar, scented by oregano and thyme, the games would be restricted to track and field, wrestling, boxing, swimming, and equestrian events. Nothing else. No tennis, no football, no baseball and other invented sports. Greed, corruption, and commercialism would be eliminated at a stroke. Only amateurs need apply. The pros have their own world championships and other drug festivals. The Olympics will remain pure, and the winners will enjoy eternal glory.

I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Taki Theodoracopulos is a contributing editor to Chronicles.

This article first appeared in the August 2008 issue of Chronicles: A Magazine of American Culture.