High life
Fohnies
Taki
Gstaad
Ail is quiet in Gstaad. Now that the 'smart' people have left, it is once again possible to find a place in the sun on the terrace of the Arc-en-Ciel for lunch, and a table at the Olden for dinner. The villagers, as always, look happy. They have worked hard throughout the winter months and now that the invaders have left their loot behind and become scarce it is time to enjoy themselves. This was probably the best season Gstaad has ever had. The up- turn in the American economy, coupled with a snowfall compared only with the one that hit Russia in 1812, helped make this a winter to remember.
Last week Miss Diana Ross and Mr David Bowie came to Gstaad, and for some strange reason I was invited to a party in their honour. Now there are few things that strike me as more ridiculous than the thought of Diana Ross (a black singer) and David Bowie (a pop star who could be either sex) frolicking in the snows of the Bernese Oberland. To my surprise, however, both turned out to be almost human, extremely polite, and by far the nicest celebrities this mecca of the rich has seen in a long time. The fact that they came apres saison should have warned me that they weren't here in order to excite the paparazzi. Miss Ross came with her three children, and Monsieur Bowie with a lady I suppose was his wife.
What struck me about the duo was that neither drove up in the de rigeur Rolls — or haemorrhoid, as we call them here because
every arsehole sooner or later is bound to get one — nor were they surrounded by the only cultural influence the oily Arabs have bequeathed to the western world, the bevy of beefy bodyguards.
And speaking of bodyguards, I see a photographer had his nose broken by one of these bullies during the wedding of Christina Onassis to Signor Thierry Roussel. The law in France is very clear. If someone invades someone else's privacy the latter can literally commit murder with im- punity. So it wasn't surprising that the publicity-conscious Onassis and Roussel had such a beef at their side. It was a kind of insurance. There are bound to be more paparazzi after them now than ever before, a fact not lost on either the bride or groom. Despite it all, I wish them luck, and predict that Monsieur Thierry will be the fourth of La Onassis's seven husbands.
Like violence that breeds more violence, bodyguards in public places provoke more than they protect. Movie and rock stars use them to carry their drugs across borders, or to pick up girls — or men for that matter — when in night clubs. The bodyguards are more often than not cowards, people who have failed as athletes or policemen, thus they already carry a chip on their shoulder the size of the mountain I've just skied down from. They look for the best looking person who might invade what they think is their master's territory and, pow, they let go. Time after time I've noticed this very thing. They never hit anyone who is big and tough. Nor anyone who could use a nose job. So, upon my return to London I shall table a motion in Parliament asking for the abolition of the beef, and I hope the right honourable gentleman who is desperately trying to make bookie joints a better place to spend one's life in, will join me in sneak- ing it through.
After three weeks of sunshine, the dread- ed John, the south wind that supposedly can drive men to murder and women to rape, arrived with a vengeance. Gstaad under cloudy skies and a hot southern wind can give one the cafard. Some people have been here since the beginning of December, and the altitude along with the John is star- ting to get to them. One lady crashed her car into mine, cutting mine almost in half, and then broke into sobs accusing me of driving dangerously. The night of the party for Diana R. and David B. she began once again to harangue me. It seems her hus- band does not allow her to ski because he thinks some of the local heroes will seduce her on some out of the way slope. When I suggested to her that she do just that, and that it was the best antidote against the John, she ran out of the chalet screaming. Yet again it looked as if I had been a cad, but nothing could have been further from the truth. I simply know what to do when the fohn hits.
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