High life
Safe and still in one piece
Taki
Gstaad This 'Back to Basics' brouhaha has not exactly made an impression here in Gstaad. The snow has finally come down with a vengeance, and things such as adultery, producing children out of wedlock and sharing beds are all taking a back seat to skiing and apres-skiing.
In fact, most of my friends are trying to emulate the Tory Cabinet. There is a mys- terious American lady of such sultry looks they would make a guide dog change direc- tion. Every night we sit in the GreenGo with her and her husband and slobber like dogs. He is half-English, half-Russian, as well as being a gent. She told me she has read one of my books and I've been swoon- ing ever since.
The beauty of Europe in general, and Gstaad in particular, is that, married or not, every woman is fair game. Woe to the husband who will pull rank. It is simply not done. Mind you, we predators are under certain constraints. One tries to act civilised at all times, especially when drunk, and one does not criticise the husband. All others are fair game. My method is simple. Anyone younger than me — and they all are — I immediately call a poof, and warn the object of my desire about them being HIV positive.
The exotic lady does not have the field all to herself. A couple of rather pretty East Europeans arrived here posing as mothers of Rosey boys. One I suddenly remembered from Athens. Poor girl. She has been picked up so often she has devel- oped a handle. In no time they made friends with some of our richest and oldest Palace clients, and for some strange reason they have failed not only to visit, but also to mention, any kiddies in school.
And speaking of human weaknesses, I
am surprised that my old friend Sir Pere- grine Worsthorne has suddenly decided to assume Malcolm Muggeridge's mantle as the holiest man in Britain. Sir Peregrine is
now a senior citizen and happily married, but if memory serves, he did a Taki for a very long time when he was younger and married to his first wife. I agree with every- thing he says, but it is a bit like Jeff and I decrying drink and pussy.
Needless to say, I am very happy to be in as safe a place as Gstaad. Safe from those ghastly American feminists who are going around cutting men's willies off. The irony
is that, while reading the Sunday Times of last week, I noticed the reporter's name on the Lorena Bobbitt case. It was another old friend, Emma Gilbey. I say her report was ironic because she once threatened to cut mine off — but, lucky for me, she soon after forgot all about it.
As these are amazing times, I might as well come clean. (Everybody else has, at least in the Government). I, too, have shared beds with men, and I will list every single one of them. Aged 21, drunk and broke, I shared a bed with my oldest friend Zographos. It was in the Sherry Netherland Hotel on 5th Avenue, and my father who lived in the suite next door had thrown me out for having come home at 6 a.m. Neither Zographos nor I did it in order to save money. We were both too drunk.
The very same year I did an Ashby yet again. This time in Florence, with Nicola Pietrangeli, the Italian tennis champion. We were driving to Rome for the Italian championships and ran out of steam in Dante's town. This time it was in order to save money.
The last time I did an Ashby was on my way to the South of France with Sean Flynn, son of Errol. We stopped near Mon- telimar and checked into a small pension. In the middle of the night I woke up and Sean — who disappeared in Cambodia in 1970 — was standing over me. 'Never do that again,' he threatened. Apparently my leg had brushed against his while asleep. If memory serves, I said something like, 'Shut up, you filthy homo,' turned over and went back to sleep. Sean dined out on the story all that summer. Ah, those were the days. It was really the age of innocence.
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