High life
Skiless in Gstaad
Taki
Gstaad Life in Gstaad is very lively right now, what with the snows fading faster than Major Hewitt's chances for promotion and the jet-set getting desperate for one last fling. (Incidentally, what Papa Hemingway called his s— detector and I call my gut feeling, tells me that Hewitt kissed and didn't tell). There are parties galore, in fact too many on every given night, which makes it almost impossible to ski well the next day, and, worse, to keep one's friends. Let me explain. I have just read in an American newspaper that the student body of my old Alma Mater, the University of Virginia, founded by Thomas Jefferson no less, has voted overwhelmingly to retain their 152-year-old honour system, the old- est and strictest in America. Under that system, anyone found cheating, lying or stealing is subject to one penalty: expul- sion. There are no ifs or buts about it and no second chances. Some 'caring' arsehole tried to pass a resolution giving a liar or a cheat a second chance. Thank God for once the students got it right. And thank God I am no longer a student. Otherwise I would have had to leave Gstaad and never return. It transpires that when under the influence I tend to believe I'm still what I used to be and accept all invitations to ski, lunch or dine with friends. But age spares no one, and when passed out it is impossi- ble to ski. This is where my mentor and very good friend William F. Buckley comes in. Bill is an extremely busy man, writing his novel, practising on his harpsichord in anticipation of his concert in Washington, and even taking lessons in hand-gliding amid the treacherous currents of the Bemese mountains. Oh yes, and writing his syndicated column thrice a week.
So, after a very satisfying day of skiing at the Horneggli down to San Stefan with Bill, I suggested we repeat the process next day and left my skis and boots in his car as we'd both be starting out together. You can guess the rest. That night I got blotto, pri- marily because I had been caught by yet another friend whose dinner party I had accepted and pulled out at the last minute pleading exhaustion. She caught me red- handed dining with er — shall we say, younger ladies.
Bill happens to be a gentleman of the old school. My faithful butler told him that I was running a bit late and Bill waited and waited at the Eagle missing the best time of day. He finally left my skis and boots at the club with a message and went on down by himself. Only, he didn't. He tried to put his skis on, could not manage it, and then realised he had my skis not his. He then went back to the club, asked for my skis, and found they, too, turned out not to be his. Now Bill is given to productive contem- plation of the problems of his friends, but for the life of him he couldn't understand why the pair of skis he had lugged up the Wassengrat like a coolie belonged to nei- ther of us. He took the cable-car down and went home surely thanking God he did not have to rely on me while in a fox-hole. The mystery was solved by my Jeeves. Unknown to Bill, Andrew Jeeves had realised I would never make it and had taken my skis off Bill's car. He did more than that. He also took Bill's and replaced them on the ski rack with what he thought were Bill's. The comedy ended when some extremely frus- trated Swiss reported his skis stolen. Now everybody is happy, but for some strange reason I don't think William F. will be accepting to keep my kit overnight. Only one day's skiing was lost — the best, as it turns out — but the good news is that the Eagle creamed the Corviglia that day, and of course we would have creamed them even more had I gotten up in time. Next year, in honour of Jeffrey Bernard, I plan to do the race on one leg, and knowing what ninnies those who race for the Corviglia are, Jeff and I will share a trophy.
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