Lethal combination
Taki Gstaad Penned in by the surrounding Alps, huddled around the Saanen valley and scrambling up the mountains for extra space, Gstaad bursts at the seams during the New Year celebrations. For the first time in its 100-year history, the Palace hotel sold tickets to its premises, and they sold out three days before the night of the 31st. I tried to enter the Palace at 8.30 a.m. on New Year's Day, accompanied by my son and a couple of floozies but was refused admission because of my drunken state and also because elderly clients were coming down for breakfast. It was just as well. I can't remember anything past 3 a.m. and there was bound to be trouble with people leaving the nightclub as we were trying to get in.
The mother of my children tells me that back in my chalet the party was still going strong when she came down around ten a.m. I was sitting comatose around the fireplace with ten strangers and giving a speech of sorts. She threw everyone out and sent me pronto to bed. I write this while suffering with a hangover which can only be described as Polonium 120-like. Actually, Gstaad is a mess during the high season. I won't go as far as to say that it has gone multicultural, but in a way it has. Multicultural to me means people without manners but with lotsa new money, a lethal combination which makes for unattractive viewing.
Back in the good old days, there were people of many nationalities congregating in Gstaad, but all had manners or at least tried to put up a good show when in public. I remember a French gangster, Michel Auchard, alas no longer with us, who did time every so often and whom we called 'Vieux France' because of his exaggerated old world courtesies and the affected manner in which he spoke. Like an old French duke. Nowadays, it is the other way round. Even respectable people try to speak down and act rough. I loathe it and make a point of insulting people who do it. I have already come close to fisticuffs twice.
I suppose this year was the worst yet, until next year, that is. One thing is for sure. I am no longer going to give my annual New Year's Eve party because of the damage done to my chalet. Valuable paintings are damaged, red wine is spilt on the carpets, the sofas are covered with chocolate, and the bathrooms resemble a cement factory after an explosion. Even worse, after midnight all sorts of strangers stream in but by that time I am long gone and welcome all and sundry. I was sitting with two young nephews of Wafic Said when some very pretty young girls burst in and told us that they were expecting company. The company did not turn out to be to my liking. No one says thank you any more; in fact no one even says good evening. So, next year, if there is one, I will take a table in the Palace or take over a small restaurant and have my friends wreck that instead of my house.
Gstaad used to be such a pleasant place before the building craze set in that it makes one think of little else. How could we have blown it like we did? Well, the answer is a simple one. The locals got ambitious and the old crowd got poor. My daughter told me she saw some appalling-looking fat Russians swimming in the Park hotel pool wearing sweat tops. I saw some frightful Arabs wearing black T-shirts sitting around the lobby of the Palace drinking and glaring at women. Worse, all the papers carried the announcement that Johnny Hallyday, a French rock star the same age as yours truly, was moving to Gstaad in order to avoid French taxes. Roman Polanski is also here, looking glum and unfriendly, as if Gstaad owed him a living.
The old guard, instead of closing ranks, has opened its doors to the nouveaux riches and horribly mannered. Personally, I am starting to look around for a possible move during the next five years, but not really. Off-season this place is wonderful, so all I have to do is avoid New Year's week and the month of February. Which this year marks the 50th anniversary of the Eagle Club, and all the parties to celebrate that event. A book is out and the pictures are enough to make one cry. Lots of hair, no wrinkles, slimness, parties galore. And no money to speak of. Boy, was Faust right to make the deal that he did.
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