High life
Happy loser
Taki
Gstaad his is the time of year when social pandemonium takes over in Gstaad and its environs. The GreenGo turns into a war of attrition between those trying to approach the bar and those already entrenched there. The dance floor resembles Vimy Ridge. The Palace hotel's upstairs bar remains slightly more civilised, but it's nev- ertheless a war zone. The lobby is Berlin, April 1945. There are Russians trying to buy everyone and everything in sight, a few Greek shipowners conducting a rearguard action, and lotsa German refugees hoping against hope to locate their wagons and beat it back to their chalets.
Last weekend was the worst (best) I have ever seen it. There was alumni weekend for the Rosey school, the King of Greece gave an extremely discreet dinner party, Vivien Duffield celebrated Jocelyn Stevens's 65th birthday with a small bash for 40, Nicholas and Kookie Springer threw the best Valen- tine party of the year — and my son John- Taki disgraced himself by leaving the GreenGo five minutes after his old man, at 6.30 a.m. on Saturday.
Now, before any stones are cast, it is as difficult to keep my little JT out of the GreenGo as it once was for most French towns to keep out the invading Huns. Two years ago, when he was 14, he set the record for infiltrating the joint. Four times. Each time Romano, the kind headwaiter, escorted him out, the little bugger found a way to get back in. He is now 16 and allowed by Le Rosey to come into the club on Friday and Saturday nights. Last Friday JT found himself standing next to Elle MacPherson at the bar. Her boyfriend Arkie Busson — who has known JT since he was a baby — introduced them. You can imagine the rest. He has been talking non- stop about her, not unlike the way the besieged of Stalingrad once talked about food.
On Monday Le Rosey's famous downhill race took place in Schoenried. Nearly 200 students took 'le depart' in a course that was beautifully as well as professionally set. Last year my little one went off the course and into the trees. When he and I had reconnoitred the course he was unable to concentrate, talking non-stop about some girl he was attracted to. This year he recon- noitred with the captain of the team, Ben Worbs — a Swiss boy who could have been in the national team but has chosen to stay in school — and Alex Amundsen, great- great nephew of the South Pole conqueror.
There is a special tension before a down- hill race. In slalom and giant slalom there's lots of joking and fooling around, but downhill is what separates the men from the boys. Racers are quiet, like soldiers on their way to battle. The good ones went off first. Down came Ben looking the real pro that he is, a handsome boy with wonderful manners and a perfect style. He posted the best time. Then came Amundsen, just as handsome, just as brave, as nice a boy as there is. He was a second or two off the pace. Worbs and Amundsen are room- mates and best friends. Then it was time for their mascot, as they refer to IT.
The mother of my children and I had positioned ourselves near the fastest part of the course. Ben had given John-Taki his catsuit, the skin-tight racing suit which no longer fitted him but in which he had won last year's race. Ben said it would bring him luck. It did. I am supposed to be a tough guy, but when I saw my little boy coming down at such great speed and holding the tuck position with such bravery I almost broke down. In fact, I shed a tear. I shussed down after him and by the time I got down I could see him prancing around with a big smile and I knew he had done well.
I have tasted a few minor sporting victo- ries in my life, but nothing to compare with the pride I felt for my boy this week. His mother does not want him to try for the Greek Olympic team, which is a pity. He is the best Greek skier ever, but I suppose learning to read and write comes first. I never thought I'd be happy to see someone wipe me out in skiing, and, worse, where the fair sex is concerned, but there it is. I am the happiest loser on the planet.
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