High life

Gstaad The fin de saison feeling is like the end of term in boarding school. Bittersweet. At school, one was cocooned from the big, bad outside world; here in Gstaad, far from the crowds and bustle, one has time to ponder the melting snows and dream about one’s youth. Closing day at the Eagle Club was fun. At the Taki Cup presentation — the overall winner and new record holder was John Taki, in 36 minutes — I reminded the members that the Taki Cup has lasted longer than both world wars combined, which means it is a far more important historical event. Some Belgian people agreed. Yep, cocoon is the operative word around these parts. Snow conditions, the weather, our blood pressure and other such weighty subjects are what concern us.

Gstaad A lovely liquid lunch in a mountain hut with my friend Nicola Anouilh after two hard runs. Blue skies, gentle winds, a few puffs of white cloud and the sound of bells from the nearby cowshed. If there’s a better way of communing with nature, I haven’t come across it yet. The natural beauty of the Alps is unspoilt and majestically alluring. White wine helps one dream and feel at peace with the world, until, that is, we’re back on skis and losing altitude fast. The bumps come up fast and in a blur, and turning uphill in order to avoid them one feels one’s about to ski off a crest and into the valley a couple of miles below. But it’s only the wine doing its work on one’s head and legs.

Gstaad I went to a wonderful party, three days of a non-stop feast. Although not at the Palace, mere hoi polloi were excluded, in theory at least. There was no sign of a Kate or a Mick — they must have forgotten the date. Actually, they were not invited, but Topper (who no one could say is a pleb — well bred is his motto, or is it well fed?) was there, as were Freddy and Minnie and Lolly and Bunny and George. I couldn’t have liked it more. Sorry, Sir Noël, but I write this rather hung over, the Muse having silently slipped away in the snow at around six-thirty this morning on my way home.

I suppose it’s a kind of solace during these snowy times that Norway, the country with the world’s highest per capita income, has not missed a single working day through inclement weather, and as I write there are 30 feet of snow covering the country. In some areas much more than 30 feet of the white stuff, yet the bars are packed at night with people who have put in a hard day’s work and wish to relax. Oh, yes, I almost forgot, the last time the schools closed in Norway was when the Wehrmacht occupied her, and only for half a day at that. (German lessons in the afternoon.) Ditto in Switzerland.

Let’s start 2010 right and mention a few honest people in the news. I wrote this sentence a couple of hours ago, not realising how difficult it was going to be to find even one honest boldfaced name. Like old Diogenes, I am still looking as my deadline nears. Which reminds me: at least the white-bearded old Greek had a trademark lamp to help him in his search, something I refuse to carry as it gets in the way, especially when trying to ski. Diogenes credited his teacher Antisthenes with introducing him to a life of poverty and happiness — the two went in hand — but the Greek should thank God he lived 2,300 years ago.

Historically, at least in America, people who seek to thrive in the theatre, publishing, on Wall Street, in the media, or even on the gossip columns make their way to Manhattan. Once here, the climb begins, and it’s tougher than any mountain in Nepal. As E.B. White, the great Big Bagel chronicler, wrote, ‘All it takes is a willingness to be lucky.’ But first one must get through the velvet rope. I was kept out until 1978, when Clay Felker, the man who discovered Tom Wolfe, and countless others, decided it was time for the poor little Greek boy to stand up and be counted. I flew from London to New York and went to work almost immediately.

The hysteria over Tiger Woods is simply wonderful. Compared with Bill Clinton’s tarts, Tiger’s are of slightly better quality, which is not saying much. The prettiest of the lot, Rachel Uchitel, is something else. This is hard for me to admit, but she was at school with my daughter and I had actually noticed her and had said something to my little girl about her. (‘Daddy, stop it.’) Rachel’s best friend was also an operator, a girl by the name of Soshana Lonstein, who managed to land a multimillionaire once she graduated from Nightingale-Bamford, a top girls’ school in the Bagel.

The fourth and last time I debated at the Oxford Union was three or four years ago, and it was a total disaster. The motion was that Katrina’s aftermath was Bush’s fault, and I was against it. A quarter of a century before that, Auberon Waugh and I had wiped out the opposition under the leadership of a very young — in his twenties — Charles Moore. Another victory followed some years later, though the subject escapes me as if in a dream. A beautiful young student asked me if it was true that I went to Annabel’s every night and whether I would take her there — which I did, and we spent the next week hiding from her outraged father.

It’s good to be in Texas. To a European like me, Texas is why we came to America. It’s a huge state, but more importantly it’s a state of mind. It is a fount of freedom and imagination. For most of the inhabitants of America’s two coasts, Texas is worse than flyover country. Texas represents everything they hate about America. Texas is big, loud, white, Republican, Christian, produces fossil fuel. Its citizens drive big cars that use up a lot of fuel, they eat a lot — starchy, fatty foods — they carry guns. The so-called élites in the Bagel, inside the Beltway and in El Lay turn Orlando Furioso when the word Texas comes up. They see it as a stronghold of religious fundamentalism, homophobia, racism, sexism and mindless patriotism.

New York At an outdoor luncheon party in Sussex celebrating Willy Shawcross’s birthday some years ago, I asked his then 95-year-old father whom he found the most interesting man at Nuremberg. ‘Goering,’ was the monosyllabic reply. ‘I mean from both sides,’ I said. ‘Goering,’ said Lord Shawcross. He later told me how the Nazi would catch out the American prosecutor Jackson in some howler, correct him, then smile at Shawcross, who had trouble not smiling back. I saw a lot of William last week here in the Bagel, as he is over for his book on the Queen Mother, an undertaking that took him six years of hard work.

New York ‘Why would he run for Parliament?’ screams the headline in the New York Times. A subheading lists ‘An inherited passion for women, gambling, the environment and politics’. As I start to read, I fear the worst, but as it turns out it could have been a lot worse. Zac Goldsmith’s name is big in Britain, less so in America, although in green circles he’s an international prince. Although meant rhetorically, it’s quite dumb to ask why a person would run for Parliament, as if being rich and normal — liking women — disqualifies one from holding office. In fact, that’s what’s wrong with politics. The wrong people are in it.