Gstaad

 Gstaad In this freewheeling Swiss village of the 1950s, the unconventional was the norm and monumental drinking commonplace, but the manners of the players were always impeccable. Yes, there were ladies of lower-class parentage and with a dubious past, but they covered it up with a grand manner and an affected aristocratic confidence they had learned through experience. That’s how things were back then. The slags that pass as celebrities today would not have lasted a minute. Some might think it snobby, but it was nothing of the kind. One just had to act in a certain manner and that is all. Everyone knew where everyone else came from, so it wasn’t even a pretence.

 Gstaad Walking into a dinner party for 50 chic and some not-so-chic people in a nearby village last week, I was confronted by a tall man with horn-rimmed glasses who called me his neighbour, but then added, ‘No, you’re not my neighbour what’s your name?’ No cunning linguist I, nor used to being barked at by nouveaux-riches whippersnappers, I turned my back on him and told him to ‘look it up in the Almanach de Gotha, asshole!’ He wasn’t best pleased, especially as I also called him a dickhead. Now please don’t think for a moment that I approve of my bad manners.

Gstaad The Swiss canton of Ticino is holding a referendum on a burka ban, and it is about time, too. Burka, niqab, it’s all Arabic to me, although I understand first hand how deep-seated the hatred of women is in Arab countries and that men wish to cover them up. Funnily enough, when you see these bearded assholes shouting on TV, it is the men who are so ugly it should be mandatory for them to cover up. When I lived in the Sudan and Egypt, a punishment from my father for running up debts — she was beautiful, a famous Hollywood actress, and very expensive, who taught me rather a lot about sex. What was I supposed to do, take her to the automat (the el cheapo of the time)? — women dressed like Europeans.

Just before I left Gstaad for the Greek islands I went to dinner at Eugenie Radziwill’s, whose other guests included the great Barry Humphries and his wife Lizzie, and a couple I had never met before but whose name rang a distant bell, John Sutherland. The bell turned out not to be so distant, the prof having reviewed a book for the Speccie just that week. I was late as usual and when introduced to Susan Sutherland I made the gaffe of asking her whether the professor was her father or her husband. She was an English rose type, very pretty, and smilingly she said, ‘He is my husband’ — without making a face over my rudeness. Her hubby seemed amused and we got along swimmingly at dinner.

In the latest Spectator Life, our very own Taki told us: 'I learned long ago that the harder it is to arrive at one's destination, the better the resort.' Apparently 'Gstaad is one of the few ultra-chic winter playgrounds where big jets cannot land.' Always up for a challenge, I decided that Switzerland's finest mountain spot needed checking out. Bloody Mary-spilling turbulence, various coach 'malfunctions' and sideways snow aside, our resident High Lifer was proven wrong; ten hours after leaving London I arrived outside, as Taki finely puts it: 'The Palace — a large chocolate cake of a castle-hotel, favoured by mad King Ludwig of Bavaria.