Published on July 16th, 2014 | by Ann Rickard0
Black Suited Bodygard On Beach
Much flurry on the beach at Psarou Bay on Mykonos yesterday.
I love a good flurry, and the beach provides flurry in big measure every day with all the international people in tiny swimwear lying on the sun beds drinking cocktails and looking gorgeous.
But then, about 4pm when the sun was really strong, a gaggle of the many beach boys rearranged a group of sun beds right on the front, put a giant ice-bucket that looked like a fish tank behind them, filled it with ice and a several bottles of Dom. Well, this is interesting, we said, or at least I did and poked awake the Man Geoffrey who was doing a decent bit of snoring on his sun bed.
Then a great big guy in a black suit suddenly appeared from nowhere. You can imagine how he and the suit stood out in the sea of near-naked people.
Everyone on the beach…well me…perked up considerably. Obviously a celebrity was about to arrive.
Anyway, again seemingly from nowhere arrives a group of ordinary looking people apart from one drop dead beautiful black guy who looked like Samuel L Jackson (is he the coolest guy in the world? He needs a new world for cool) and another bald guy in a blue shirt and orange pants, and the flurry went up a notch or three with the beach boys fussing over opening champagne and bringing out more ice and another big round gold ice-bucket with more Dom and half a pineapple sitting on the ice and a special table full of sushi…and oh my…it was a flurry.
The paparazzi circled then a television crew arrived and began filming the group, then the strapping beach boys brought out a big elegant cream box full of cigars…yes, cigars being offered on the beach…which made me take a look at the beach menu everyone has on their sun bed table. I hadn’t really looked at it before because the Man Geoffrey is not fond of me ordering 20 euro Copa Cabana cocktails on the beach when he can supply a decent gin and tonic for one euro from his tiny but trusty esky. (We keep the esky, more like a little chiller bag, discreetly hidden. It’s not a good look amongst the gold ice-buckets.)
Anyway, there on the menu among the Chateau Neufs and the Chablis Grand Crus was the finest Iranian Beluga caviar at 160 euros for 15 grams, and a jeroboam of Cristal, limited edition, a bargain at 80,000 euros, and I thought…I want to stay on this beach and people watch forever.
I had to know who these newly arrived people were so I approached the guy in the black suit who looked understandably ridiculous amongst all that near-naked flesh.
“Who are you?” I asked him, meaning who are all you lot.
“I’m a body guard,” he said.
Really? I would never have guessed. I pressed him further. “What’s going on, what’s all the flurry about? Who is the celebrity?”
“Just a rich guy,” was all he would tell me.
So I sat and watched, trying to guess which one of the group was the rich guy. Apart from Samuel L Jackson who had a gorgeously happy personality and was now on his third glass of Dom and surrounded by strapping beach boys eager to keep topping up his glass, none of them looked rich.
Well, the Man Geoffrey figured out it had to be the guy with the orange pants ‘cos he kept getting up and taking phone calls and wandering along the jetty and every time he did, the body guard followed him, not taking his eyes off him.
Finally, with my curiosity seething (love a seethe as much as a flurry) I approached Samuel L Jackson (not only gorgeous and cool but laughing and happy and showing beautiful big white teeth) and asked him.
It turned out the Man Geoffrey was right, Orange Pants was the rich guy. He was from Switzerland, a jeweller, who had bought a big chunk of Mykonos and was going to build a resort, and Samuel L Jackson was his architect.
Samuel and I had a lovely chat about Switzerland – just as well I’d spent a glorious 8 days there the week before and I could talk knowledgeably about it – and I told him how much I loved Switzerland and how everyone there was either highly educated, a Nobel prize winner, or disgustingly rich, or all of those things, and he agreed heartily, and when I told him I was from Australia he frowned and said he’d love to go there but he never never NEVER would because it was too far away and too hard to get to and Switzerland was the centre of the world.
“Oh, I know,” I agreed. “And we don’t have this scenario going on on our beaches,” I said as I waved my hand authoritatively over the gold ice bucket with the Dom and half pineapple.
Samuel L Jackson widened his eyes in horror. “Why not?” he said, shocked, really shocked.
Well, how to explain that our beaches, spectacular as they are, don’t have bikini girls taking drink orders and strapping beach boys ferrying vintage Dom by the bucket load? And how to tell him I doubt even some of the finest cellars in our country would be hard pressed to come up with a bottle of Cloud Chaser Provence Rose at 4,800 euros let alone serve it on a beach, and as for a cream coloured box of cigars being presented on the sand…well let’s not even try to explain.
When the flurry died down and the rich people made moves to leave, Samuel Jackson gave me gorgeous three cheek kisses as he said goodbye and then a couple more kisses on my shoulders as he and Orange Pants and Black Suit departed, and beach went back to its normal fabulosity.