Articles by Uri Geller
Articles by Uri Geller

Weekly News: Ariel Sharon, Boat Show

The boat show is a place of dreams.
I can’t believe that the tens of thousands of eager shoppers I saw crowding the ExCel centre in London’s Docklands really had a couple of million pounds each in their back pockets, but every one of them was gazing regally around as if they could have pointed to any display, snapped their fingers and ordered a sleek, gleaming vision to be delivered to a marina in Cannes.

I wasn’t there to buy. (Of course, if I’d wanted, I had only to snap my fingers. No, honestly. Really, really. Stop pulling that face.) Conor Fanning, who sells the Danish-built X-Yachts including the Boat of the Year, the X-46, invited me to motivate his sales crew after seeing my show in Dublin. “You changed my life,” he told me. “Now I want you to change my team’s lives too.”

The conference room was so tiny, we’d have had more room in a canoe. Next time, I’ll insist that Conor takes us all out on the Solent in a yacht, because there wasn’t room to swing a cat o’ nine tails. But the team responded well as I delivered an inspirational lecture, urging them to believe in themselves and be positive thinkers.

The highlight came when I produced a ship’s compass, a Finnish Suno piece in solid brass which I’ve used on stage for 30 years. By focusing my energy, I can make the needle flick and move. “I don’t think I’d want you on board my yacht after all,” gaped Conor. “We might end up anywhere.”

Outside the cramped cabin, I met Shelley Jory, who with her co-pilot Libby Keir is the British powerboat champion — the first ever female
winner — as well as a shortlist nominee for Yachtsman of the Year. She’s the Michael Schumacher of the water, as well as a clever
businesswoman... when she’s not hurtling across the wavetops, she runs the family bridalwear shop in Southampton.

Shelley told me her team, Raymarine, had raised £20,000 for Children In Need last year by auctioning a powerboat experience, where the
winner would learn to navigate and control one of the superfast boats before taking a VIP seat to watch a grand prix. John Cauldwell of
Phones4U and millionaire Nick Robinson were both high bidders, but my friend the paparazzi boss Darren Lyons clinched the prize with a 20K bid. Shelley told me proudly: “We raised more than David Beckham!”


The serious illness of Israel’s prime minister, Ariel Sharon, saddened me but came as no shock. A man of 77 cannot push himself like a soldier on the battlefield, day and night, never resting — but that’s how Arik forced himself to live. Anything less would have been a dereliction of duty, the ultimate disgrace for a soldier.

I told in this column last month how Sharon was roused from his bed at 4am to break through an impasse during Red Cross negotiations between Israel and the Arab states. I had pleaded with friends in Washington to use the White House as a hammer, to shatter the deadlock, but in the end only one man had the power and the White House called him.

 It wasn’t an unusual thing for the Israeli PM — the time difference between the Holy Land and the States means crucial negotiations
regularly come to a head in America when dawn is breaking in Jerusalem. But when a candle burns at both ends, it soon gets too hot for even the toughest man to handle. ‘Arik’ Sharon was a tough man. I met him 35 years ago, at an Israeli airforce base where I’d been doing a show for fighter pilots. I didn’t know that one of our most senior commanders was watching. Sharon shook my hand, asked if the spoonbending was a trick and grunted when I protested that it was a psychic feat which depended on the mind’s belief in its own power.

I had a strong sense that this man was himself psychic – that he recognised intuitive impulses in his own make-up and that he was
unafraid to act upon them. I instantly felt this was a man who could rise to lead Israel. I said nothing of the sort, of course. He didn’t
look like the kind of soldier who would stoop to acknowledge flattery. Instead, I said on an impulse:
“There are bombs about to fall. Tonight.”
“Where?” asked Sharon, unflustered, like a squadron leader receiving a report from his radar operator.
“Here. Some time before dawn.”

He simply nodded. I was driven away from the airbase, back to Tel Aviv. Later I learned Sharon had ordered all personnel to take refuge
in the bunker, so that the treaty-busting Egyptian air-raid that devastated the buildings and the runways cost not a single life, nor
even an injury.

I met him again in New York, with Michael Jackson and the controversial rabbi Shmuley Boteach. He was in the States for talks
with the new president, George W Bush, and commandeered the top floors of the apartment block where I was staying. We were invited to step through the ranks of security guards for a handshake and a photo opportunity, but amid the insane media attention that Michael Jackson created it was impossible for me to talk privately with Sharon.

My prayers go out to him and his family. He has given everything for his country.

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