High life
Forum for brains
Taki
Rougemont hehe Gstaad Symposium society was conceived during an extremely gay (in the old-fashioned meaning of the word) evening in Palazzo Taki as an antidote to the usual mind-boggling alpine resort con- versation about a) snow conditions, b) chalet prices, c) the length of one's stay in Gstaad, d) the Eagle Club and the new chairlift problem. The ethos of the society is to exchange ideas and promote better understanding between . . . blah, blab, blab. Basically, what we want to establish is a forum which will invite brainy speakers to impart some of their knowledge, in return for extremely good food and wine, top- class hotel accommodation, a free trip and a small honorarium. Oh yes, I almost for- got. After dinner, members of the society can air their views, just like in the old days, when Plato was around. And they sure aired them last week.
No sooner had we established the ground rules, than I telephoned Alistair Horne in England and invited him over. He chose Kosovo as a subject. Yours truly addressed a packed dining-room in the Olden hotel, explained what the Gstaad Symposium was trying to do, and intro- duced Alistair. After his speech there were questions until I cut the proceedings short and invited the waiters to start serving. I knew what I was doing because I've read The Deipnosophists. Firewater has always helped debate, and last week was no excep- tion. Being a moderator, needless to say, did not inhibit me from taking part. I recognised myself time and again and had my say about war criminals like Clinton, Blair and Albright. The only non-political remark was by some wag wondering whether I understood what the word mod- erator meant.
The evening was deemed extremely suc- cessful because everyone in Gstaad who knows the difference between Rimbaud and Rambo attended, and Home did put for- ward a good argument about the absurdity of trying to hit moving targets from 15,000 feet with antiquated maps and without agents on the ground. From the night we thought it up to last week's shindig took something like 20 days. We managed to form a society, register it, elect officials, take in members and establish rules. Not bad for a group that, er, has been known to be diverted by good snow conditions, nightly parties and the odd blonde. I want to bring over Paul Johnson, John Keegan, Andrew Roberts and Antony Beevor. The only things that interest me are politics and pussy, but, as I mistrust politicians, histori- ans are the next best thing. We will also have artists, philosophers and economists address us, but before Davos panics and dismantles its hotels, we wish to keep it small and exclu- sive, so all our members can take part.
Good things come in twos, and the next day I lunched at the William Buckleys whose guest was an old friend and one time Gstaad denizen, the one and only Roger Moore. Roger now devotes himself full time as ambassador for Unicef, and Kristi- na Tholstrup and he seemed awfully happy and content. Here's a person who has made Britain proud, has never put a wrong foot forward, and who now does so much good for refugees, the poor, ill and dispos- sessed, yet it's bloodsucking lawyers and quick-buck meisters who Blair keeps ennobling. Roger Moore deserves a peer- age more than most, but being heterosexu- al, honest, a gentleman, and self-effacing does not measure up for the House of Lards nowadays. Space does not permit me to recount some of the wonderful stories he told us, but I've been dining out on them ever since.
And speaking of lawyers, if some of those gruesome people think that now General Pinochet is back in Chile some of us will forgive and forget, fugheraboutit. Blair, Cook and Straw, not to mention Lenny Hoffmann and his ilk, should not sleep easily from now on. Their arbitrari- ness of who gets to be prosecuted will come back to haunt them, and I'm looking forward to the day when one of them ends up in Balkan custody for crimes against humanity from 15,000 feet.
And before I forget. Whatever happened to the sainted editor last week? Extending a conciliatory hand to the Guardian rabble is like French-kissing a cobra. Attacking the Guardian is not only a must, it's a patri- otic duty. The Guardian is in bed with the IRA and the Provos, and The Spectator exposed it. And as for the sainted one's theory that those whom the gods wish to destroy first attack the Guardian, sorry, I always have — and things for the poor little Greek boy are hunky-dory. After my daddy died people gave me ten years to go through his fortune. Again, very sorry, but through my friend Carolos Fix and his fund, I have quadrupled it. Oh dear!
Previous page
