How the super-rich ruined the beach
Azerbaijan, as you may already know, is no Saint Tropez. But that doesn’t seem to be stopping the super-rich, who – arguably also super-stupid and super-greedy – are furiously packing their silly little Louis Vuitton bags and handing over absurd quantities of Azerbaijani manat for a lounger at the new Baku outpost of Nikki Beach.
For those blissfully unfamiliar with the Nikki Beach “brand”, it’s a chain of upmarket beach clubs. (How upmarket? Well, a salad – sorry, a “Sexy Salad” the menu calls it – costs £36.) Its empire bestrides the globe like a catwalking supermodel, with outposts everywhere from Miami Beach to Koh Samui (via, obvs darling, Saint Tropez itself). Now, though, it’s bringing its brand of muslin-draped daybeds and overpriced lettuce leaves to destinations as diverse (ie. desperate) as Muscat, Magaluf and indeed Baku.
Which is fine, because no doubt the oligarchs will enjoy ogling the hostesses and spilling their £340 bottles of rosé in Azerbaijan (sandwiched neatly between Russia and Iran) – but it’s another worrying reminder of how the one per cent are slowly taking over the world’s beaches and turning them into taste-free zones. True, it may be another year or two before we see a Nikki Beach at Tenby or Great Yarmouth, but keep your eyes peeled like an imported tiger prawn for the advance of the idiot rich. Here, to help (“We shall fight them on the beach clubs…” and all that), are a few early warning signs – 15 ways the super-rich are already ruining the beach.
1. ‘Yachts’
We wouldn’t mind if they actually were yachts – a nice Swallows and Amazons sort of thing bobbing about in the harbour. But no, nowadays the word refers to things that look like a floating Dubai skyscraper and block out the sun for half the people on the beach.
2. Beach Butlers
No, I don’t want my sunglasses polished, thank you. I’m trying to wear them.
3. Influencers trying to make you get out of the way of their shot
Can we really blame this on the rich? Why, certainly we can. Where entitled wealthy morons lead, entitled would-be-wealthy morons follow.
4. ‘Small plates’
“So our menu is based on a sharing concept, Madam, where we encourage you to order not one main course but seven or eight small plates between the two of you. What’s that? Oh no, you’d think so, wouldn’t you, Sir, but actually each small plate is priced at almost exactly what you’d normally pay for a main course ha ha…”
5. Loafers
Make men’s feet look like pasties. Still, at least they’re not…
6. High heels
In the sand? Are you kidding?
7. ‘Six-star’ hotels
Do you really need an underwater nightclub, an infinity pool suspended in mid-air and a two-Michelin-star chef to “oversee” (ie. turn up twice a year to) the restaurant that microwaves your wagyu burger? Fine, but the helipad? Come off it.
8. Driving up prices
A 99 Flake? An 8.99 flake, more like! Thanks, the one per cent.
9. Boys’ toys
Hover-boards, hydrofoils, mini-subs, jet skis and, of course, drones to video himself falling off all of the above.
10. Private islands
How did they manage to find an island the British Empire didn’t find first? And why aren’t we invading?
11. Food
Ceviche, poke, edamame… these aren’t meals, they’re side dishes! (Mush ’em up next to battered haddock and chips and you’re talking.)
12. Drink
Same but with liquids. We’ve no problem with the more-money-than-tolerance-for-actual-alcohol brigade sipping their Aperol spritzes and Whispering Angels and boutique hand-distilled locavore small-batch foraged craft 0% ABV gins – but now there’s no room in the bar’s fridge for good-old-fashioned tins of shandy, pre-mixed margaritas and own-brand rum.
13. Cabanas
Now with air conditioning, Wi-Fi and flat screen TVs. Would you… perhaps be happier back in your hotel room?
14. Dawn yoga
Get out of the way, will you? I’m trying to get my towel down on a sunlounger here.
15. And those actual beach clubs
It’s not just Nikki Beach, you know. Now every jumped-up beer joint within half a mile of some sewage-strewn stretch of sand wants in on the hustle: throwing a worn velvet rope around its soggy loungers, hiring a ‘DJ’ to press play on his laptop and nod for the next four hours, then charging you to enter, to hire something to sit on, to eat, to drink, and then, finally, for nothing, because you didn’t quite make the “mandatory minimum spend” so they’ve rounded your bill up to that €300 anyway. And all this to be on a spot of beach identical to the one five feet the other side of the rope (in, if you’re really unlucky, Azerbaijan.)
