Noblesse gets nobbled

I wrote a short post almost two years about Italy's ex-Royals, Vittorio Emanuele di Savoia and his appalling family, when the whole ungrateful gang decided to sue the Italian state to the tune of €260 million (plus interest) for the 'moral suffering' of being obliged to live in Switzerland for 54 years. You can read it here. They withdrew their claim some months later, presumably when it was pointed out that silence is often the better part of maintaining some small scrap of dignity, despite one's best efforts to piss it away. Soon after that, the remnants of the Christian Democrat party decided to candidate the son, Emanuele Filiberto (hereinafter Fibbie), for a seat in parliament. There was an exhilarating moment during a press conference in which the party leader was caught whispering answers to a sadly confused Fibbie, who clearly hadn't expected the press to be so insolent. Earlier this year, with his budding political career already in shreds, Fibbie won Italy's version of Dancing with the Stars, a victory that strained the definition of both 'dancing' and 'stars' but let's not be churlish; at least the boy knows how to wear a tux. Next stop, Fop Idol.

Now Pops is back in the news. He's about to be tried for having attempted to corrupt a public official in a case that involves prostitution, gambling, drugs and the sexual abuse of minors. Sordid stuff and, as Dorothy Parker once said about girls attending the Yale prom, I wouldn't be a bit surprised. According to a Milanese pimp who'd provided the man with an evening's entertainment, the would-be heir to the defunct Italian throne complained that €200 for the young lady's 'performance' was 'excessive'. I'd need considerably more than that to share a hotel foyer with Vittorio Emanuele, let alone perform in a bed, but a chacun son gout. Still, it's been a good cull this week for jowly old roués, with Briatore chucked out of Formula One. They say there's never two without three, so who'll be the third? I wonder. With the latest news about very large sums of money being extracted from the Italian tax system by a mysterious Dottore, the head of a certain media empire, maybe it would be wiser if Silvio Berlusconi stayed in the States.

Pickles

Not to be outdone when it comes to relevance and quality, Italian state television has its own version of Celebrity Come Dancing. It's called Ballando con le Stelle (Dancing with the Stars) and it has the same cavalier approach to stardom as CCD does to celebrity. Presumably on the principle that no one with a real reputation to lose would appear on the show (pace John Sergeant), it's redefined the word star to cover 'ex-spouse of star', 'glamour model', and so on. This year, though, it's gone one better (in barrel-scraping terms). It's invited Emanuele Filiberto Savoia to shake a leg on prime-time telly.

EFS, for those of you who don't know, is the grandson of the last king of Italy, forced to skedaddle after palling up to Mussolini. His father, Vittorio Emanuele, a slack-faced halfwit with the brains and moral equipment of an amoeba, managed to use his 'business' contacts under the last Berlusconi government to have the whole gang re-admitted to the country after decades of gilded exile in Geneva, Paris, Sardinia (yes, Sardinia is in Italy, but money makes borders permeable).

Since their return, Daddy Savoia has been in trouble with the law for various 'business' dealings involving gambling, sex slavery and prostitution, and, along with his son and wife, a botoxed biscuit heiress who makes Ivana Trump look classy, has sued the Italian government for moral damages. (More about this here.) EF's first bid for stardom (in the televisual sense) came when he endorsed a pickle manufacturer. Along with many others, I wrote to the company to suggest that this wasn't a wise choice and received, within seconds, a long, carefully-worded email in which the pickle makers hedged their bets, defended their decision, apologised, etc. Two days later, the ad disappeared from Italian TV screens and EF's contract was rescinded.

Since then he's entered politics, running for a party whose name I forget and registering the polling equivalent of nul points. His political sympathies remain on the market, for anyone who might regard them as a worthwhile investment. He was last in the news just over a year ago when he refused to pay a speeding fine. He refused to pay for two reasons. The first was that he wasn't driving the car at the time. The second was that the road signs weren't very clear. This is known in legal circles as the Billy Bunter defence. (As in: I never ate the cake. And, anyway, it was horrible.)

Ballando con le Stelle starts on Saturday. Waltz on, Pickles.

Noblesse oblige

One of Italy's longest standing jokes, the ex 'royal' family Savoia, hits the front page again today. No, Vittorio Emanuele, the pudding-faced capo famiglia, hasn't tried to hire a few hookers for one of his 'business dinners'; he hasn't peppered anyone with shot from his hunting rifle and left him to die, or tried to open a semi-legal casino with dodgy funds and the help of a gaggle of pimps. No, his oily son, Emanuele Filiberto, whose only claim to fame is to have sold his regal aura to a pickle-making company, hasn't been arrested for rape in Geneva, his former home. He lives in Italy now. They all do, thanks to Berlusconi. They're back, from their down-lined gilded Swiss exile, to haunt us.

And what do the ungrateful minxes do? They ask the Italian state for damages. They've filed a claim for €260 million (with 54 years' compound interest) for the 'moral suffering' they underwent while in exile. Plus all their confiscated belongings. Their lawyers have written a seven-page letter to the President of the Republic and the Prime Minister. Well, obviously their lawyers have written it. I mean, seven whole pages. The Savoia's Italian just isn't good enough. Maybe they should sue for linguistic suffering too.

By the way, the woman standing next to Vittorio Emanuele isn't Elizabeth Taylor. She's a fake. Still, he seems happy enough.