The Vamp in the Veil

We humans are trusting by nature. And rightly so: it makes the world a nicer, more civilized place to live. Yet it is as a result of this generosity of spirit that Shebugs manage to creep and crawl onto the calm waters and soil the pond.

Their excessive boldness gene does not necessarily mean every Shebug gets to rattle our chains overtly; silicone breasts and trout lips stun most effectively, but there are a dime a dozen, frankly. For bigger ill-gained gains, more brain cells must be called into action, for this is a time 'creative camouflage' comes in very handy…

A Shebug’s goal is not always about milking a millionaire or poaching a billionaire. Her main aim is to fill her greedy coffers with as much abundance as she can, while she cans: currency, titles, corner offices, shares, jewellery and flashy cars. But property spells long term security for a leech and by amassing enough little houses in a row, she automatically garners a degree of legitimacy in the business world.

The British courts and the press are zooming their hot spotlights on a woman who goes by the name of Sara al-Amoudi. She is referred to as the Vamp in the Veil. (This ranks as an ideal disguise for a prowling London Shebug; only last month, men donning burkhas robbed of £1 million worth of watches at Selfridges...The possibilities are endless.)

The Vamp in the Veil claims to be an heiress to one of the largest fortunes. She insists on being the daughter of Sheikh Mohammed Hussein al-Amoudi, worth about £4.5 billion. But as far back as 2010, the Sheikh’s London-based spokesman said that Sara did not form part of his harem’s offspring.

Whoever she is, best beware. She comes equipped with a niqab, so you only see her green eyes and perfectly plucked brows – no more no less. Three bodyguards surround her and she needles her way up and down London streets in a chauffeur driven Rolls Royce Phanton VI. She has a penchant for alcohol, Swedish lovers, and a mobile numbers that end in 666.

Her ex-partner, from whom she siphoned off many millions, died of alcohol poisoning at the tender age of fifty. The Edinburg property developer’s portfolio was worth £25 million at the time they met.

Sara has hoarded an impressive amount of real estate for a thirty-one year old with no university credentials to show for. She owns places London’s top boroughs, West Sussex and Cornwall. It is claimed that the Shebug pulled off ‘a very accomplished fraud’ by simply convincing banks that she was a Saudi princess to secure loans, which she then used to create the illusion of astronomical wealth.

The Vamp in the Veil has since picked up the scent of fortune and easy flesh by way of the eighty-eight year old, Dominick Geoffrey Edward Browne, 4th Baron Oranmore and Browne, 2nd Baron Mereworth. Let us hope he reads the papers privately in a room equipped with a deadbolt and a Vamp-proof safe.

Meanwhile, the case continues with the Shebug’s real identity still at large. 

The Roman Lolita

I’ve recently returned from a writing sojourn in the Eternal City. Under the beating June sun, I retraced the bloodstained steps of Rome’s most infamous Shebugs: Valeria Messalina.

Marc Anthony was her great grandfather and her father, high ranking consul, Valerius Messalla Barbatus. Her noble birth garnered an even deeper luster no sooner the fifteen-year old Shebug became a member of Caligula’s household - by way of marriage. 

Her husband, the much older, physically disabled and simple-minded Tiberius Claudius Caesar, assumed the unexpected leadership of Rome when his tyrannical nephew, Caligula, was stabbed to death thirty times on Palatine Hill as a result of a plan hatched by the Praetorian Guard and Roman Senate. Valeria Messalina stepped into her new role of consort in no time at all.

The fifteen-year old bride, Tiberius’ third wife, possessed good looks and took lovers early on in their marriage. But Claudius, smitten and bewitched by the Roman Lolita, pandered to her every whim. Valeria’s debauched conduct became the talk of the town head when she challenged a prostitute-and came out the victor. Valeria even sent one of Claudius’ favourite nieces who was apparently highly skilled in the art of seduction, packing into exile and later terminated in an odd fit of jealousy. But Claudius turned a blind eye.

In ridding themselves of the despotic Caligula, the Romans hoped to secure figureheads that were beyond reproach. Despite his crippled physique, mild-mannered Claudius fit the bill - but his much younger wife did not. 

But did she care? Not a fig.

Valeria’s venom flowed alongside blood on every road leading to Rome. Anyone who opposed the Empress Shebug lost their lands and many their lives. She plotted and counter-plotted. Her inglorious greed became unmasked when she brought trumped up charges against a leading senator whose beautiful lands she coveted. Claudius believed her false accusations, which lead to the respected politician’s death. And so, the fabled Gardens of Lucullus came  into Valeria’s dirty little hands.

The unassailable Shebug ranks as the first century AD Mafia Mother of all Mothers: she sold her influence to anyone rich enough to buy it in exchange for imperial favours. But it was when she fell for the most handsome man in Rome, Cauis Silius, that Valeria Messalina crossed the proverbial Rubicon…

The young consul-delegate succumbed to the Emperor's in the hopes that the infatuation would die down and that he would be replaced by another paramour. Instead, Valeria all but handed over the empire to Silius – slaves, freeman, furniture…you name it.

Public opinion of the Emperor dropped to a new low so Messalina tricked her husband into a temporary divorce so he could save face. But as soon as Claudius granted his overindulged Empress her freedom, she shocked the citizens of Rome and wed Silius without delay.

The insult to the scorned Emperor became too heavy to shoulder. Reduced to putty by his courtiers, he had no choice but to order Valeria's execution to demonstrate some semblance of strength. Centurions were immediately dispatched; not even the wedding attendees were spared the rod. Cornered, Messalina tried to end her own life which was viewed as more dignified in ancient times, but failed miserably.

Armed with the Romans Republic’s full backing, the centurions’ blades of justice exterminated the despotic Shebug... in the Garden of Lucullus.

The Murdoch Touch

All ears are tuned into what will be one of the most dissected and discussed divorce settlements of the year. The players? Rupert and Wendi Murdoch. Rupert is worth $9.4 billion, or £6 billion. The eighty-two year old’s global media portfolio comprises the Wall Street Journal, television channels such as Fox News and Sky, and the 20th Century Fox movie studio. Wife Number Two netted a $1.7 billion settlement. Every Shebug worth her venomous salt is poised to ensnare the media mogul regardless of how much wife number three gets to strut off with.

The label ‘über rich’ is branded on Murdoch’s lined forehead, no matter how many women he joins with in a state of matrimony. The Australian-cum-American, love him or hate him, possesses the Midas Touch: he could lose every last penny and be able to make it back a zillion times over by the time you and I digest the last page of the book The Secret…

A billionaire is at his most vulnerable when he is on the rebound. The tactic that every Shebug of every colour, shape, age, nationality and religion (best strike this last one: they are too deviant to follow the Almighty…) will deploy is the simplest of all. It’s known as come-cry-on-my-shoulder and is as blatant as a baboon’s bum and as transparent as a fly’s wings.

But billions a brain does not maketh, so rest assured Rupert will fall prey to another in no time at all. Wendi Deng knew him for two years and became his wife only two weeks after his second divorce came through.

Wendi originates from a small town in China and moved to America shy of twenty. She met her already married, soon to be ex-husband at a cocktail party in the Far East.

Wendi is clever: she went from setting tables in a California restaurant to securing herself a degree from Yale.

Wendi is tough: the painful thirty-eight year old age gap bothered the forty-four year-old not one iota.

Wendi is quick: when one of Murdoch’s UK newspapers, the News of the World, got caught out phone hacking, the forty-four year old flew out of her chair and slapped a joker who hoped to smear her husband with a pie made of shaving-cream during one of the 2010 televised parliamentary sessions. 

In my exposé, Shebug: Dissecting the Gold Digger, I explain how Shebugs divorced from, or linked to men who possess the Midas Touch, retain a rare  patina of power that excites other industrial titans of note competing for the highest glass tower. Simply think of this as boys and their toys.

Imagine if this undeserved essence could be bottled and sold at the perfume counter!

Marin Independent Journal

How exciting…

My fourth book, SHEBUG: Origin England has also been listed in the Marin Independent Journal this month

Thank you, San Francisco Bay Area!

'SHEBUG: Dissecting the Gold Digger' Reviews

Wedding Bells & Shebugs from Hell

The month of June ring wedding bells across the Northern hemisphere. Once again, the promise of love and happiness permeates the air for all to inhale and savour.

Having said that, weddings seem to bring out the meanest in the Shebug breed. Once their jealousy flares up, best be en guarde…

A dear friend of mine, Jane, has a daughter who just got married. I spent a magical afternoon at their house a few weeks ago and enjoyed hours of good old girlie chatter and shared wisdom. The topic of conversation included a handful of Shebugs, naturellement; Jane one of my biggest fans and is pushing me to publish the next book in Shebug Series. (Watch this space!)

It all began when Lydia, the bride-to-be, moaned about a call she had just taken from someone who was asking whether she could bring a date three days before the wedding. This was not a boyfriend, but some guy she had gone out with the weekend before. Caught unawares, Lydia reluctantly said yes.

“Don’t feel bad, Lydia,” Jane cooed. “You buckled under pressure and gave in. But you can remedy this immediately by learning to say one very important word: 'no'.”

Lydia’s troubled eyes doubled in size. “But, mum, I just said she could-”

“No worries. Call her back right now and explain that you did not have enough time to think before answering. Then tell her ‘no’ and that the seating has already been arranged. Dead simple.”

Jane picked up the receiver and handed it to Lydia. Before her daughter’s resistance took control of her, her mother carried on gingerly, “The first time is the toughest. But after a couple of times, you won’t even bat an eye. Don’t let ill-bred people like her push you around. It’s your wedding and you are in charge.”

Jane ‘s advice was spot on. The operative word when deflecting all manner of Shebuggery, whether on a social level or business level, is ‘NO”.

I thought back to my big day and how a friend of my mother’s came dressed in a long white gown... Rather than see red, my mother swiftly swapped the Shebug’s place setting to the furthest corner of the room. Regardless of her husband, the renowned tenor who had just sung the Ave Maria during the ceremony, my mother wasn’t about to let his cheeky wife inflict undue damage at my wedding.

One very attractive older woman I know decided to pull a fainting fit right before a meal for 200 was served at her niece’s wedding.  Thankfully, she did not bang her head and require an ambulance. (If you did not think angels walk the Earth, think again!) She was immediately escorted her to her seat inside before the couple and their families heard about the incident. One very gracious guest remained glued to her side in case the crafty older Shebug had another trick up her satin sleeve. She did, however, capture a coterie a guests swooping by to ask how she was feeling the entire evening…

A year ago, another incident took place at a wedding held in Venice. But this time, it was a Hebug wreaking havoc; the groom’s cousin’s sharp claws came out to play like Edward Scissorhands on Grappa and steroids…

The bride and groom, both recent medical graduates, had an after hours party organized for their closest friends. Two highly polished water taxis awaited under the light of the moon to whisk the guests to the couple’s half furnished two-bedroom house to continue their celebration.  But instead of ending up there, the Hebug, an insufferable braggart, instructed the boat captains to ferry the select gaggle of guests to his opulent villa instead.

Jane shared the story about her American friend Elisa, whose bright rosy future juddered to a grinding halt the moment the priest asked whether or not anyone should object to the wedding. An uninvited Shebug raised her hand and brazenly stood up. Her fake pregnancy announcement secured her the trophy she had been after for some time. He was very successful and handsome to boot.

Eventually, Elisa found love once more. But this time, she took no chances and eloped. Like his predecessor, Elisa’s husband was also property developer only much more driven. So when the permission was granted his company to erect a tower across the street from his wife’s ex-fiancé and Shebug wife, Elisa demanded one simple thing of him.

“Build me one wider and taller then theirs.”

He very happily obliged.

Infestation

London is being flocked by more and more people, people who can afford to live where the sun shines and the skies are not cloudy all day. And why is that?  Because they can afford it. Oh, I know the headlines claim that the UK has lost its footing in world markets and that the economy has hit a triple recession, and that first time buyers might as well move to Grenada and live off bananas, whilst the latest batch of university graduates ought to strike out with their backpacks and build schools in exchange for a dry hut in either Uganda or Belize.

And yet it is official: this capital boats more multi-millionaires than Tokyo, Singapore and even New York…The current definition of a multi-millionaire is anyone who has more than £19 million. That equates to $30 million.

London’s plutocrats are not all British born: think Russian football club owner, Asian steel tycoons, sheiks from Qatar and those from the Continent fleeing their newly empowered Euro Taxman. Interestingly, New York still ranks as Billionaire Central. They might have 70, but London claims to be the home to 54 according to the newspapers.

But what comes attached to Mr. Big Bucks like hard-to-remove, pain in the neck barnacles on the bottom of a ship’s hull? Shebugs. And Queen Shebugs no less. The word ruthless applies to them in every way imaginable.

A top British club, which shall remain nameless, has become badly infected with the pestilence. Not that they haven’t set foot in there before. Pests that they are, they infiltrate any wall, no matter how thick or well sealed they might be: if you live in a hot humid country, think cockroaches. Their presence has become as annoying and destructive as the wave of moths assaulting London cupboards this year. They are disgusting to look at and blooming expensive to remove.

This past Saturday night at the club was a show in and of itself.  On our way to the dance floor, a scantily clad brunette applied her belly dancing moves as her weapon of choice for an audience of one diner in a dinner jacket. I quickly explained to my guests that the bottle blonde Shebug who was encroaching upon our territory was not out to snap our seats at the bar, but was on the look out for potential targets. (Not something one hopes  to have to warn her guests about…)

To remedy the situation, I herded our group up to the cigar room for a change of air. Unfortunately, there we found Boris Becker surrounded by a bevy of hungry ones despite the presence of Mrs Becker… Back downstairs, a tall blonde twirled about wearing a very short girlie tutu. Upon closer inspection, it tuned out to be Heidi Klum, partying very hard post divorce from singer Seal. (No doubt a smaller swarm of Hebugs had attached itself to her entourage...) By then I had run out of comfortable corners so we called it a night. Plus, I had forgotten to bring bug swatters as a precaution; they just do not fit in a minaudière, do they?

The Shebug/Hebug invasion has polluted the waters of this once great place. The club’s original owner sold it a few years back and has opened a new one.  Many of the original members have already jumped ship. 

The fees are even steeper, but than again, keeping an exclusive and reputable nightspot Shebug- free is worth it!