..in which Forbes angers a Saudi Prince

Prince Alwaleed bin Talal Al Saud is annoyed.

Forbes has long been the ultimate list. Featuring on the magazine’s list of the world’s wealthiest is an aspiration of many an entrepreneur, while, for the rest of us, it’s ranking of billionaires shows us just who actually is in charge.

But today the magazine has just infuriated Prince Alwaleed bin Talal Al Saud, the man who it believes the wealthiest in the Middle East. In a brutal statement of misgiving, the CFO of Alwaleed’s company, Kingdom Holding, said, “Forbes has no intention of improving the accuracy of their valuation of our holdings”. While in another statement he said, “I never knew that Forbes was a magazine of sensational dirt-digging and rumor-filled stories.” 

So how has Forbes provoked such a stir? How is one of the most powerful men in the Middle East moved by some shallow rich list? Here’s why: The article headlining Forbes’ March 2013 magazine not only paints the picture of a man obsessed by money, but gives an interesting insight into the region.

Alwaleed, Forbes argues, annually exaggerates his wealth by billions just so he can appear on their rich list; such is his obsession with the competition. He uses his public company – Kingdom Holding, which uses the tagline, “The World’s Foremost Value Investor” – to inflate his value. Only this year, Forbes gave him a net worth far less than Alwaleed would have liked. Here’s what they say:

“Of the 1,426 billionaires on our list, not one–not even the vainglorious Donald Trump–goes to greater measure to try to affect his or her ranking.”

This distaining Forbes article may show up Alwaleed as a man whose pride is his wealth. But it also raises questions over his fellow Saudi’s obsession with money.

The article goes on to list Alwaleed’s 420 room palace (apparently filled with portraits of himself), 747 private aircraft with a throne, private “farm and resort” with artificial lakes and a zoo. Yet all of these (bar perhaps the zoo) are not uncommon displays of wealth in the Kingdom, which, also according to Forbes, has the second most billionaires in the Middle East after Israel.

Ironically, this accumulation and ostentation goes against the wishes of Saudi Arabia’s founder, and Alwaleed’s grandfather, Ibn Saud. According to his English adviser, St John Philby, Ibn Saud was frequently frustrated by many of the Princes’ displays of wealth.

As for Alawaleed’s true wealth: Forbes puts his worth (apparently wrongly) at $20 million; Bloomberg, who he endorses, says he is worth $28; Arabian Business takes the middle ground at $25.9 and WealthInsight, a global wealth consultancy says that Alwaleed owns $22.6.

Look at all my money. Photograph: Getty Images

Oliver Williams is an analyst at WealthInsight and writes for VRL Financial News

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism