High life
Mixed up in politics
Taki
Gstaad The Eagle Club is shut during the summer, and a good thing too, as many of the members are not exactly presentable in shorts and shirtsleeves. In fact the presi- dent of the club, Comte Decazes, is as dreadful a sight as I can think of, El Presidente never smiles, never sits in the
sun, and never but never lets anyone under 30 and of the fair sex come into the club for free. Behind his back we all wonder what the outcome of the battle of France would have been back in May of 1940 had Decazes been at the helm.
The secretary of the club, Colonel Vicomte de Warren, was a tank comman- der during that particular battle, and is never best pleased when I remind him that my great uncle Von Manteuffel took him to the cleaners quicker than you can say retreat.
Which is to say I am hardly popular with the powers that run the club. There have been many attempts to remove me as member, all unsuccessful up to now, and that includes a campaign by Louis Francke and Decazes while I was cooling my heels in Pentonville. Monsieur Francke is now dead, and I plan to challenge Comte Decazes in the coming winter season. For president, that is.
Ironically, I have always got along very well with the committee, which has viewed my antics throughout the years as amusing, rather than loutish. Claude Barbey, the vice-president, is as grand a gentleman as one can find anywhere, and if he decides to run I will sacrifice myself in his favour. The first `Jefe' of the Eagle, Lord Warwick, was a perfect head, as he often got drunk and passed out at the presidential table. The second, Vicomte Benoist D'Azy, , was a gentleman of the old school, but ex- tremely understanding when some of the younger members could not pay their bills on time. And he had plenty of common sense. He threw out Roman Polanski as soon as he set eyes upon him, and he did the same to Gunter Sachs. He resisted rich and vulgar Americans trying to buy their way in, and told the then all-powerful Adnan Khashoggi to go fly a kite.
Last week I climbed the Wassengrat and lunched at the small restaurant beneath the Eagle where the proles meet for noontime digestion. The last time I had lunched there was 1959, with my friend Zographos, while we waited for our one season suspen- sion from the club to end. We had assaulted the Aga Khan with cream buns, and somehow the British ambassador had ended up with a black eye.
Otherwise, life in Gstaad has been per- fect. I climb a mountain in the morning, lunch, and then play some tennis. At night I drink Swiss white wine, which gives no hangover, and teach my young son the evils of central bureaucratic planning. I use Switzerland as a Utopian example, and South Africa as an example of double standards by the Left. Unfortunately, my Young daughter's mind has been polluted by trendy American Lefties in school, and she and I have been having spirited discus- sions about politics. I got some unexpected help when the latest African blackmail about the cricket tour became public. Even a 13-year-old understood the hypocrisy involved, and I was extremely proud to hear her say that if anyone should be banned it should be those who compete with the Cubans.
I guess if one leaves a child in Switzer- land long enough it will get the right idea.
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