High life
Romantic notions
Taki
Gstaad 1_1 ere I am among the ski-bums, interna-
tional layabouts, oil-rich Arabs and greedy jewellers, tearing down the pistes after long liquid luncheons at the Eagle Club. Ever since the Earl of Warwick, the Club's first President, and the Vicomte Benoist d'Azy, the man who succeeded him, resigned, I have felt inhibited and ill- at-ease. I used to have a lot of fun throwing cakes and insulting some of the more pom- pous members, and when they would com- Plain and demand my expulsion — as they invariably did — both Warwick and the Vicomte would defend me. No longer. The new President is a Frenchman and, like all People from that country, I suspect he has not much of a sense of humour. He also joined the Club much later than 1 did, and probably thinks I slipped in as a life member while the committee was suffering from a hangover. Therefore I am watching my step, and am getting very short-tempered with the Club's membership in general and Gunter Sachs in particular. The latter is a German Multi-millionaire Playboy, who has just imported about 20 tarts to this alpine Mecca, thus ensuring vic- tory for one of his entourage in the annual Miss Gstaad competition. Nevertheless, I must be fair. I, too, had planned to corner the market of the beauty stakes, by inviting some English nobs, whose wives and sisters- in-law, however, declined to participate. It's always the same. Well-born nubile young things don't relish the thought of parading up and down a room being judged by a bunch of dirty old men, yours truly in- cluded. So my chalet lost, and the filthy hun won.
Speaking of women, 1 was rung in New York by a very polite man who asked me to take part in a television programme chaired by Ludovic Kennedy. The other par- ticipants were going to be Diana Quick and Jill Tweedie. Although I have never missed an opportunity to abuse women's libbers, I am afraid I will have to opt out of this one, despite the fact that I am a great admirer of Mr Kennedy's. And before anyone accuses me of being a coward, the reason is not that Miss Quick is rather intelligent, and that Ms Tweedie is a pseudo-intellectual and rather hysterical; it is because I have an opportuni- ty to appear on the idiot box with one of the greatest men's libbers and true scholars of all time, Mr Jeffrey Bernard, and my sainted editor.
While I'm at it, however, here are a few thoughts on women. Just before flying to Gstaad, the editor of the American Spec- tator had asked me to write a long opus on women in general and American women in particular. The main point of the story was why some women — especially American ones — are lousy lovers. Needless to say, despite my expertise, I got it wrong. The editor, Bob Tyrell, is a friend, and he's given me a second chance. The reason he didn't like it was that I held back (his words); I hadn't attacked hard enough. Although it is an accepted fact that love between humans is not merely an in- dulgence of carnal pleasure, but a private sacrament destined to last, it is romantic only as long as the man is allowed to feel superior. The romantic ideal of a man com- ing to the rescue of a damsel in distress is not Arthurian hogwash. The purpose of having her in distress is to show that a cer- tain tenderness 'toward the • weak sex is romantic.
With the exception of human beings, female primates do not accept male superiority until it is imposed on them. The creation of the romantic ideal is one of the things that separates us from the primates.
And, after all, it was men who had to swear knightly oaths, not women. The troubadours who first sang the romantic tales knew enough to know that women did not need to bind themselves with promises, whereas men did. But when women began to try and make up excuses as to why they failed as poets, that is when they began to be lousy lovers. Who wants to go to bed with someone he's been in competition with all day, unless it's Martina Navratilova or Billie Jean King? Women simply have to realise that the urge for sexual loyalty is a powerful and omnipresent female yearning. And that feminism is a cruel hoax, given the fact that the noblest role of all is that of the mother and booster of the male ego.
When Clare Booth Luce, who was a
plywright, an editor, a member of Congress, an ambassador and a mother and wife, was asked what her greatest achievement was, she unhesitatingly answered, that of a wife and mother. NO wonder all these ludicrous women's libbers who write books about female painters no one has ever heard of, can't stand Mrs Luce. Veritas obrium
What I suspect is that fear of failure and reluctance to compete on equal terms in the artistic and business field is behind feminist thinking. All that hate and bitterness could not be explained otherwise. And, needless to say, I have a remedy for it. I suggest that we men pull a Lysistrata in reverse until ag- gressive women's libbers mend their ways. Ironically, here, in the greatest country in the world, there are no women's lib pro- blems. The Swiss know how to deal with almost everything, except their terrible ac- cents, and ladies are kept in their place. Or parading up and down the pistes dressed in marvellous ski outfits and looking pretty. In fact, if it wasn't for the types Sachs brings around, I might stay here for ever.
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