Don’t hate him because he’s beautiful.
Hate Monaco’s Prince Pierre Casiraghi because he’s insanely wealthy, spoiled like yesterday’s pot roast, wears something called an ascot around his neck, and considers “work” a four-letter obscenity.
He also fights like a sissy.
The 24-year-old grandson of Grace Kelly and Prince Ranier III graced New York with his presence last Saturday, along with blue-blooded and numeraled homies including shipping heir and professional slacker Stavros Niarchos III, 26, whose greatest hit was once dating celebrity slug Paris Hilton.
Also slumming in the Meatpacking District, the enclave lousy with tipsy tourists and trust funds, was art-world creature Vladimir Restoin Roitfeld, 27, son of the French Vogue editor, and another fella called Diego Marroquin, 33 — each demonstrating that the richer and more useless the man, the harder to spell his name on the police blotter.
As the clock ticked down to 2:30 a.m., a toxic combination of substances smooshed together, and I’m not talking about Xanax and malt liquor. We’re talking models, playboys and fifths of Grey Goose vodka, whose sticker prices rise like magic — from $25 a bottle to $500 — as the booze makes its long journey from bar to tableside.
As has been described to me, it seems Casiraghi — hey, this guy dates the descendant of an actual saint! — wanted to sit at the owner’s table at club Double Seven. Trouble was, the table was already occupied by the equivalent of the club set’s unwashed 99 percent.
Owner Jeffrey Jah sat with Adam Hock, 47, the former owner of the now-defunct downmarket Times Square club Hawaiian Tropic Zone, and hairdresser-to-the-stars Joel Warren. Plus, a trio of Russian and/or Slavic models whose names are too complicated to spell.
Casiraghi apparently failed to notice Hock was nearly twice his age and about double his willowy build. Or maybe he didn’t care. For this is a guy who does not recognize the meaning of a two-letter word familiar to toddlers everywhere: “no.”
Casiraghi & Crew proceeded to taunt Hock and his party, while doubtless violating city health codes by scooping bottles of overpriced vodka from the table and trading swigs with unprotected lips. It was at this point that Hock had enough.
“The next thing I saw, all hell broke loose,” said a witness.
Hock allegedly punched Casiraghi, sending him sprawling and leaving cuts on his face and blood staining his expensive clothes. Then, he allegedly turned to Niarchos, Roitfield and Marroquin, punching them into alphabet soup.
The most uproarious moment of the moneyed rumble came as a Casiraghi pal grabbed a bottle of Grey Goose and tried to crack it over Hock’s head, but lacked the arm strength to pull it off.
Hock was arrested and charged with four counts of assault. At his arraignment, he insisted: “I was defending myself and others. Why aren’t [Casiraghi and friends] in handcuffs?”
Good question.
Hock was released on his own recognizance. Casiraghi was reportedly treated and released from a hospital.
This leaves the prince time to work on his manners and his biceps.
Or wake up in daylight.
Kidding.