Vivien Leigh and Kenneth More in The Deep Blue Sea

So what else is new? London has become the sinkhole where foreign billionaire crooks sue each other. I saw the ghastly Boris Berezovsky speak utter rubbish to the divine Emily Maitlis—he’s lived in England for close to 15 years and still can’t string two proper sentences together. His enemy Abramovich, another son of a bitch, is just as bad. To see Chelsea lose is now one of my great pleasures, although it’s sick-bag time when the cameras close in on Abramovich. Football has now replaced cockfighting or female mud-wrestling as disgusting spectacle. But watching a young, white, sporting Bilbao team wipe the floor with Manchester United was a rare pleasure. I find African footballers too aggressive and too ready to take offense for my taste. But as they say, if the head is rotten, there’s not much one can do for the body.

Sepp Blatter, head of FIFA, is football’s equivalent of the Tchenguiz brothers: ugly, decadent, money-grubbing, and rootless, but most of all corrupt. He was reelected unopposed after a rival withdrew with his hand still in the till. Now FIFA will investigate the match referee and Bahrain’s players in an “unusual” 10-0 win over Indonesia. The Lebanese ref sent off the Indonesian goalie in the second minute and awarded four penalties to Bahrain. Along with that wonderfully democratic paradise that is Saudi Arabia, Bahrain is as rotten as the rest of the Gulf States now demanding a Syrian change of government.

What a bunch of crooks and knaves they all are: Tchenguiz, Blatter, the Gulf criminals, even European governments who use high-sounding language while selling arms to the bad guys. Rattigan was lucky to go when he did. The erotic triangles he wrote about no longer exist. This is threesome time. A crestfallen husband whose wife has run off with a younger man now buys some happy dust and settles down with a Russian or Kazakh tart. Everything is for sale, starting with female bodies. Just look at the ghastly names I’ve listed above—I can’t bear to repeat them—check out their women, and you have the name “tart” spelled out in living color. While you’re doing that I will dream of Jenny riding her bike to work down in the East End, and I’ll wake up happy and raring to go skiing.