Winner takes it all or a Bob each way in the love stakes
Never give all the heart For love will hardly seem worth thinking of to passionate women without a prenup.
Dear Agnetha. Exciting news. You’ve almost won first prize in an international lottery to be my soulmate.
You’re probably thinking, ‘‘But I didn’t enter any lottery’’, and that’s the best part, because entry is free.
Having decided on my new career as a paramour, I searched the web to find suitable candidates to spend the rest of my life with – or the statutory period to qualify as a ‘‘married’’ couple, whichever comes sooner.
That list has been winnowed to three, and you are in the photo finish.
We don’t see ‘‘winnowed’’ used much any more, but that’s the sort of
chap I am – cultured, poetic, attuned to nature, GSOH, kind to animals . . I could go on.
All right, I will: good with sprogs (thankfully, we’re past that), handyman extraordinaire (as you Swedes say), housetrained, photogenic on a red carpet . . .
If I have a weakness at all, it’s culinary – but we’ll have staff 24/7 for that.
With me at your side, you’ll be back on the world stage as so much more than ‘‘the blonde one from Abba’’.
I see you are worth US$200 million. Recycled rock is a hot ticket, so that stash must be compounding, and I’m delighted that a chunk of it is from solo success after your period of mourning when the group disbanded.
‘‘Recluse,’’ the tabloids called you – which is their tag for anyone with the gall to claim a private life. I can protect you from such brutes.
You’ll be pleased to hear that you have a pal on the podium. Yes, Frida – or Princess of Reuss and Countess of Plauen, as she calls herself now – is also in the running for my affections, subject to due diligence.
As we know, she did a Grace Kelly, marrying Swiss royalty. Now widowed – or ‘‘merry widowed’’, as the brutes say, because she’s ‘‘lovenesting’’ with a British viscount and descendant of the founders of retail chain WHSmith.
Old and new money infuse beautifully, don’t you think? The Chanel No 5 of financials.
Frida’s lovely, but her fondness for blue blood could be an issue, what with me born on the wrong side of the tracks. Hence my hereditary weakness for reality TV and takeaways.
We both live in democracies, however, and a title is a simple matter of donations in the right quarters.
I don’t know what it is about the Swiss, but we’ve had a late email entry, Mrs Sandy Zalanka, ‘‘writing from sick bed’’ when her energy should be saved for battling terminal cancer.
Alas, this Swiss widow, living in Ivory Coast, is desperate to distribute her US$17.5m fortune to an orphanage or for church maintenance. She’s offering US$2.6m as a helper’s fee.
I’m tempted. Compassion gets the better of me sometimes. My accountant, ‘‘Rebate Roz’’, cautions that the paperwork would be a blizzard, particularly begging letters from orphans living in churches with leaky roofs.
So, on advice, the last spot in the top three winnowed to a tussle between two hotties.
Adele is back on the market after her split from hubby. She’s said to be worth US$270m and like you, adding to the pile with every playlist – plus a biopic in the wings.
As I told my kids, if you want to be poor, become a poet. If you want to be rich, set your verse to music. It doesn’t matter how bad the verse is – for the rest of your days you’ll be counting the beat, and the royalties.
Messy, though, with Adele’s settlement yet to clear the courts – so MacKenzie Bezos has her elegant nose in front. She’s US$39 billion postdivorce, according to Bloomberg’s rich list. I don’t even have to convert that to be smitten.
Her ex Jeff can bank three times that much. I’m not saying this signals how a theoretical split might work for me, but it’s on record, as Roz points out.
The disparity in our incomes can’t be ignored, Agnetha, but I’m prepared to overlook it for the sake of our deep and abiding love. We don’t need any squalid prenup.
The brutes won’t buy that. They’ll sharpen their poison pens and dub me a ‘‘gold digger’’ in large type. We both know that’s untrue. And if it was, I’m the George Fairweather Moonlight of gold diggers, larger than life, and getting larger by the day.
It’s a long time since I was dashing – except to a public loo – and my surgeon cautions against swagger until the titanium seats in, but I retain a devilish charm. (Picture Laurel and Hardy more than Tom Hardy and spare yourself any disappointment.)
I also shower daily, even if the hot water has run out in the ablution block.
Such delicacies I’m sure you’ll appreciate as we snuggle into our love nest overlooking Lake Geneva. Or at St Tropez.
Pardon, ma cherie, we are ahead of ourselves. First, the eliminations. I’ll arrange intimate dinner dates between our respective financial advisers. Please alert your people. Any night except Thursdays, when Roz has her Column Dancing lessons. (She’s quite the hoofer.)
Once MacKenzie and the Princess have made their pitch, I’ll announce the judges’ decision.
Full and final. No regrets. No ogling other rich listers wondering, ‘‘what if’’.
Yes, Agnetha – the winner takes it all.
A title is a simple matter of donations in the right quarters.