High life
The end of the season
Taki
Gstaad The annual 'cloture' of the Eagle club and that of the GreenGo nightclub at the Palace Hotel are fixtures for Gstaad's goodtime Charlies. The last supper at the Eagle is a civilised affair, unlike the last drink at the GreenGo. There are speeches from various committee members, a strolling Swiss band and lotsa boozing. Then we all ski down on unsteady legs and yet another season has gone down the Swanee.
I joined the club 38 years ago, and have been suspended only once — way back in 1959 — for gross disrespect of the Aga Khan. It is amazing what time will do, how- ever. I am now among the most respectable of members, and I've even forgiven the Aga for putting his face in the line of my cake-throwing. In fact, after the behaviour of his ex-, unlamented wife, I am now on the Aga's side.
Last Sunday, just as the merriment began in earnest, I noticed a large man speaking on a mobile telephone. Needless to say, I went ballistic. Such horrors are strictly for- bidden in the club, so I went up to the vul- garian and told him to turn it off. He looked nonplussed, as Rumanians with new money tend to do nowadays when they're forced to wait in line or adhere to the speed limit. (Yes, he was Rumanian.) The closing of the GreenGo is always a rowdy affair. This time it coincided with the Bruno–Tyson fight, so a large group of us remained in our seats, so to speak, wait- ing for the dawn and fight time. Las Vegas is nine hours behind, so by the time we arrived at my chalet to view the slaughter, I thought I was seeing things. A man sitting rather politely next to me looked awfully like Bruce Willis, the Die Hard film hero. After a while I asked him his name and, sure enough, it was the movie tough guy. He could not have been more polite, and he even remained polite when my idiot box failed to transmit a fight I had already paid for. (Something to do with Switzerland.) So about 30 of us were led through the snow at six in the morning to an American chalet next to mine. A friend had assured me that the Yank's television set would come through. That is when the most extraordinary thing happened. We rang the bell a couple of times and an old and extremely sleepy man opened it. His name, as it turned out, was Lieberman, and he had a brief moment of notoriety a while back when he left his wife for Ivana Trump. `Hello,' said my friend in a heavy Latin- American accent. 'This is my buddy Bruce Willis and he is desperate to see the fight. Can he and my friends come in?'
`Bruce, Bruce,' answered Lieberman, opening his arms as if Bruce were a long- lost friend, 'my house is yours. Come in, come in.' His television set was in the bed- room and about ten people climbed onto the king-sized bed. That is when a curler- wearing lady of a certain age asked in rather an un-ladylike way, 'What the f— is going on here? This is my bedroom.' Nobody paid any attention.
Worse, an Italian girl I was putting the moves on all evening asked our kind host for champagne, which she eventually got. Willis, I must admit, was the only one who looked uneasy throughout the intrusion. Thank God old Frank Bruno did not last 12 rounds. If he had, Mr and Mrs Lieber- man would be in the divorce courts as I write.
Thus another Gstaad season has gone by. The bad news is that it was a non-stop booze-up. The good is that I made up with Victor-Emmanuel of Savoy, a childhood friend I had treated badly in print once. We finished the winter skiing together every day, playing practical jokes on friends and have a very good time. Victor has a good heart and does not bear grudges. It is the only way to be. I don't either; I only hope that's also the case with Lieberman.
If that's work tell them I'm not in.'
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