Sleazy does it
Taki
Gstaad
Unsurprisingly, I was pipped last week by Paul Johnson on matters saponaceous, and I didn’t even need to look up the word. I refer to Paul as my mentor, but only to types who think Oprah wrote the Iliad. Otherwise it might prove embarrassing to the sage. I had a Rupert Murdoch story all ready, but having read Paul’s column, the Taki contribution became redundant. So I’ll keep it for the Freudian Review, soon to be published by Onanists Anonymous Inc. Anna Murdoch, now Mann, seems to have hit the old boy for six. She’s the one who ensured that his four older children, including her three, would have the right to approve any changes in the family trust, one the Digger had to sign if he wished to marry the dragon lady. Good for Anna Mann. Jilted wives have a way of coming back to bite one, so look for the Murdoch press to start a campaign in favour of masters of the universe, and how unfair the law is where discarded wives are concerned.
Murdoch is not a bad fellow — I’ve met him twice and he sure was charming. But if anyone is responsible for the moral wasteland we’ve descended to, he’s our man. Oprah’s rambling, corny, therapeutic phrases are a close second. Sleaze and greed are the operative words for both individuals, and the decadent societies on both sides of the ocean owe them a debt of gratitude.
But enough about decadence. Last week I had a birthday party in Gstaad. Happiness might be a trivial quality when compared with wisdom or knowledge, but the older I get the happier I am when around my family and friends. I know, it sounds Oprahesque, but there you have it. Flaubert once wrote to a friend that in order to be happy one needs to be in good health, to be lucky and to be stupid. But if the last is missing, all is lost. How right he was, although I’ve had the worst year ever as far as health is concerned. Physical injuries incurred while falling down drunk, and recently while doing karate, have made me aware of things to come. My friend Robin Birley came over for the party and asked to watch the training in the dojo. Richard Amos, another good friend, and the only European I know who looks like a Japanese grand master when on the floor, was also here, and on the last day, my birthday, and just before the party we decided to go for it. I held my own but emerged bleeding rather a lot, unaware of this until Robin pointed it out. It was a good if bloody way to say goodbye to my 68th year on this ridiculous planet.
The party that followed was fun — I had a tent set up on my lawn — especially when the great war photographer Jean Claude Sauer and Gstaad’s greatest wit, John Sutin, gave speeches. But it’s no fun getting old. The next day I was Lydia Languish as well as Mrs Malaprop. Still, I’d rather be here than in Palm Beach, and to hell with old age. Tennis and karate training start again this week, and next month it’s back to sailing on the Riviera, once the obscene billionaire Russian crooks and perverted American slobs have left their grotesque megayachts for northern climes. Long live 69year-olds, beautiful young girls and British cricket.
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