Words: Harry Shukman
Say you’re a billionaire and you’re picking up your first superyacht. Nothing fancy – just a little number like Lady May, 152 feet long, sleeps ten and has a crew of eight. You bought her because of her white marble surfaces, Macassar ebony cabinets and quantum zero-speed stabilisers so your trays of cocaine don’t spill on the high seas. What delicious thoughts must run through your head after buying it. You’ll be sparkling off the coast of Cannes… serenading the Plage Gazagnaire with the sound of Icelandic techno from your enormous speakers… inviting over a runway’s worth of Victoria’s Secret models to open a methuselah of Dom Perignon Rose Gold 1996. And with a white captain’s cap rakishly perched on your head? Naturally, old chap.
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