British Hunting Grounds

London has more crescents, closes, gardens, lanes, squares, ends, circuses and crosses teaming with more Shebug opportunities than construction jobs in China and Dubai combined. The slippery gold digger who has done her homework knows that the British market can be broken down into four main target categories depending upon the type of millionaire/billionaire the poisonous predator is gunning for.

Let us begin with the blue-blood category: The Royals. Alpha Shebugs possess tunnel vision when it comes to snapping up one of these bloodlines to leach off of. Snapping up an aristo-with-mula allows her to flip any Park Avenue Princess the proverbial bird. Shebugs thrive on competition.

Ginger-top Harry ranks as Numero Uno—and not only for Shebugs, but for most mothers with eligible daughters. (They’ll deny it, but let’s face it: for one’s daughter to have a lifetime position with THE FIRM, I wouldn’t put up too much of a stink. I would, however, pack up and move overseas to protect my privacy: a photo adjusting a wedgie on the Kings Road or puffing on a Cuban cigar at Annabel’s might get me dragged off to some remote tower in Wales by order of the Queen herself…)

Royal hangouts: boogying at Boujis or the dipping into the Dover Street Arts Club. Come springtime, the polo fields are teaming with royal targets --and green-eyed blonde Shebugs in push-up bras panting at the bit.

Next in order of importance are the Hedge Fund Managers, aka gods in this stinking economy - although they could not be more opposite the Almighty…

Demanding and showy, this ego-centric prefers movie stars and models as his arm candy. The Shebug with her eyes set on his lifestyle is the exercise fanatic along side you at the gym who complains about living a punishing diet. And why? Because she also knows that the Hedge Fund Manager’s soon-to-be ex-wife is anorexic, so will his subsequent ones. You can spot this Shebug swinging from the Gherkin to the Shard tracking potential marks in the City. 

The Landowner calls himself a farmer. But Farmer Joe, he ain’t. His total acreage could be the size of an archipelago squeezed together, let alone the size of Indiana. They abound at the Royal Agricultural College halls and are known to take their pints and their pleasures at the Wheatsheaf in Northleach, also in Gloucestershire. Wheatsheaf might look low-key from the outside but the beautiful interior (and its infamous zinc tubs) speaks volumes. 

In his verdant turf, the Shebug tries to blend in wearing Wellington boots and a Barbour. No matter how much she might hate mucking about in the mud and being driven around in a bird stained ten-year old Range Rover with a broken heating system, if the tweedy landowner has the goods she’s after, she’ll never let on…until she nails him.

And last, but not least, is the Techie Geek. America might have Silicon Valley, but it’s cheaper for domestic Shebugs to simply circle round the Silicon Roundabout to fish for minnow-size millionaires. Unlike its stellar Californian competitor, the lay of the land can be memorized in a day. 

The candidate she’s scouting for texts more than he speaks and when he does open his mouth, she’ll have to either respond in techie-talk or nod her head and look on adoringly. The Techie Geek remains pure cliché: bad haircut, baseball cap, sloped shouldered, and spectacles the thickness of bottle ends. And he probably will look like he needs a bath. Mind you, he could have gold taps installed in his pricey loft but prefers to spend his spare change elsewhere, like at the bi-annual Le Web conference.

If you think Le Web is a menagerie of worm-face techies, you have been living on another planet: think high tech version of the G8. Last year, the likes of Bill Clinton, the Prince of Wales and the Prime Minister attended the Paris Le Web. So, unless a hungry Shebug is invited or steals a ticket, she’ll have to cough up the full £1590 to enter this big fish watering hole.

By the way, did I mention London is the host to Le Web next week?