High life
Snowman
Taki
Gstaad T sometimes think God must be in my lcorner where snow conditions are con- cerned. Take for example the winter that has mercifully just passed. Throughout December and January there was as much snow in Gstaad as there are buyers lining up for Anna Ford's team effort to explain oral sexual history; i.e. there were a few misguided snowflakes that had landed and just as soon evaporated on the Wassern- grat, leaving the Bernese Oberland moun- tains as brown as the proverbial underwear of a Puerto-Rican war hero. It looked as if 1984-85 would be a repeat of the 1964-65 winter, when I played tennis with Irwin Shaw and Philip Washer in the Gstaad Palace skating rink, and at the Eagle Club the then poor Denise Shorto (now rich and hoping to be richer Denise Thyssen) bask- ed on the terrace with only a tiny bikini hiding the attributes that eventually made her rich beyond the dreams of ordinary people (the judge's words not mine).
1964 was a lousy year for me. Through
no fault of my own I managed to alienate the whole Greek Helvetique community by announcing the death of King Paul. The reason I did it was simple.' My father rang and told me that the much loved King was dying and I understood that he had died. So I told Tina Onassis, who told Stavro Niarchos, who told Theo Rossi, who told the then secretary of the Corviglia to fly a half-mast flag for the remainder of the season. Telegrams, letters and wreaths followed. Parties were cancelled. Then it emerged that King Paul was still very ill but definitely alive. The trouble was the tele- grams and wreaths were being delivered just as my well-intentioned mistake was being discovered. Queen Frederika, it was later revealed, was definitely not amused. The fury of those who had jumped the gun was such that for once I decided to do a Jimmy Carter and pull out. I fled back to Gstaad, which has more royalty, and so fewer royal-arse-lickers. (I forgot to men- tion that due to the lack of snow I had moved to St Moritz after two months of playing tennis.) Twenty years later people still accuse me of having played a practical joke, and for 20 years I have been denying it. And looking at the tragedy of modern Greece I can think of nothing that could be in worse taste. King Paul was a wonderful man, which is rare for royalty, and had he stayed alive my country would not be the joke of Europe it is at present. But back to snow conditions. Just like 20 years ago, this winter season did not auger well for me, especially as on 14 December a judge decreed that I was not to be allowed to ski until the month of March. But while I did my dry training, the alpine gods decreed that the jet-set would have to wait for Taki. The first real snow fall hit Gstaad just as I hit the Caledonian Road in north London on 26 February. Since then the snow has been excellent and the weather even better. There are two new lifts that now make it possible to ski on three different moun- tains, on 16 different runs, and never take one's skis off. Partly because of my dry training before coming here I am skiing in the manner I skied in 1962, the last time that I can honestly say that I skied well. (That was the year that I represented Greece in the world championships at Chamonix and came in last in the giant slalom, next to last in the special slalom,
and 45th out of 120 in the downhill. The
then French Minister of Sport, Maurice Herzog, the conqueror of Annapurna, walked out on the piste when my downhill time was flashed and shook my hand and embraced me. Herzog had lost all his fingers and toes through frostbite, but not his heart. It was my finest moment.) Back then the downhill runs were not prepared by mogul-flattening machines as
they are today. A racer followed the
contours of the mountain more or less, probably going through five gates at the most. The equipment was primitive in comparison, and the danger of permanent injury and even death was always present (no hay bales and plastic walls to catch a skier going off the piste at speed, only the forest). Perhaps it is the new skis and boots I am using this year that once again have made skiing a pleasure for me. For a long time I had been struggling, skiing awkwardly, without rhythm, and without style. But this season has been different. I now ski in the morning, have lunch, ski some more and then do my cross-country training. I have even bought myself a one-piece snow suit, something I swore ten years ago, when , those who wear such things first emerged from the closet, that I would not be caught dead wearing. Well, it is extremely com- fortable, like my calf-high boots and pre- skis that turn with a flick of the hip. I guess as old age sets in comfort becomes as important as, say, a sun tan is to a Hollywood phony. And speaking of sun tans, my belated one is of such depth, that as I return to England this week I am worried that once again I may be stopped at Heathrow. This time at immigration.
Previous page
