High life
Crowning glory
Taki
admit to being rather flattered at being compared to the Queen in last week's Spectator Diary. The only difference being, of course, that I write my own court circu- lars, as well as paying for the odd yachting trip out of my own pocket. Otherwise, I guess both Her Majesty and I do 'lead an equally predictable existence in limited and unvarying locations', as Mr Forbes put it.
Good old Ali. The man is obviously bonkers. He spent all last year bombarding editors with epistles demanding Taki's dis- missal and now he writes that I remind him of the Queen. Surely living in a safe place like Switzerland has got to him. I know it has to lots of others.
One person who agreed with Forbes was
my poor old mother. She's very frail, sad about my dad and in poor health, but when her faithful dame de compagnie read her Ali's diary, she agreed that Elizabeth H and Taki I are both rather majestic. The next thing I know she'll want me to wear a tiara.
And speaking of tiaras, I spent a week in Gstaad following my book launch and didn't spot a single royal. Although there is no connection, I had the most wonderful week. My friend Zographos was in fine form, another friend of 45 years' standing Alecko Goulandris ditto, and the Buckleys, as always by far the most interesting people in the Alps.
The ski-ing, needless to say, was Saddam Hussein-like — the worst ever. What was great was the weather. Not a single cloud appeared the last five days, so I climbed and ran and felt good enough by the end of the day to get roaring drunk five nights in a row. The secret lies in the exercise one takes following the long night. And in the oxygen intake. All you need after that is the root of all envy, because there's noth- ing free in good old Helvetia. Just before he left, Bill Buckley and I were ski-ing together when Bill hit one of those piste indicators, knocking it down. While I enquired whether he was hurt — he hit it at speed — Alistair Horne, who was ski-ing with us, yelled for us to keep going before some Swiss came up and demanded pay- ment for the sign.
The Taki betrayal, as it was called by the Palace staff, turned out to be a disaster. On my penultimate visit to Gstaad, I stayed at the Park hotel, newly rebuilt, refurbished and re-staffed. After 33 years I thought I'd make a change, not unlike taking a new and much younger mistress. Well, it didn't work. Although I liked my digs, with a vast drawing-room and terrace, the service was not up to par. When one is paying the kind of money the emir of Kuwait has abroad, however, one expects Palace-like results. The poor Yugos the Park employs could not provide it. And how could they? After 45 years of commie indoctrination it is a wonder no one slit my throat at night for my Bogner ski outfit. Mind you, someone did do away with my brand new Salomon skis from the ski room, and when I asked the hotel to replace them, I was told in no uncertain terms that there is a small sign beneath the radiator that says the Park is not responsible for valuables unless put in a safe. But how does one stick a pair of skis in a safe? Good question.
It was solved when I moved back to the Palace and all was forgiven. On my last night I gave a goodbye dinner, which turned out to be four dinners in a row because each following day was more glori- ous than the last. My only regret was not to have been able to invite those who wrote such truly generous reviews of my opus. Each of them will receive a super-tanker soon, but not in the post.
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