High life
Bleak omen
Taki
WGstaad hat a way to start the new year. Back in jail. Yes, I've done it again, but this time only for an hour. It was the Radziwill wine that did me in, having dined with the Polish prince and his Greek princess prior to my arrest. I guess my 66-year-old liver ain't what it used to be. No sooner had I downed a bottle of an awfully good red, I was sloshed and needed some action. 'Hush' is the newest 'in' place of Gstaad, owned and operated by Jeffrey Moore, son of Roger, and the place was jumping with nubile things. In fact I was by far the oldest person there, but was soon shamed to a hasty migration by my daughter. Normally I would have walked to the Palace, but that particular night I happened to be driving my brand-new yellow Mini, so unwisely I decided to motor up the hill, literally a twominute drive. I never made it. What I did was reverse into a large tree rather hard, demolishing the rear of the Mini, never mind the poor tree. I am not a lawyer, but, literally speaking, this will be a hard one to prove. Drunken driving, after all, means going from point A to point B under the influence. In my case I went from point A to point minus A, all three yards.
Having inspected the damage, I left the car against the tree and walked to the Palace. I told Andrea the concierge what had happened, asked him to take care of it in the morning, and went down to the GreenGo nightclub for some more fun and games. At around five I decided to call it a night and walked home. Just as I was getting into my warm bed, my daughter informed me that I had two visitors: a man and a woman, both police officers with guns in their holsters. Although confused as to why they were there, I nevertheless asked them to join me for a nightcap. Both refused. 'Have you had anything to drink?' was the first question. "Of course I have, do you think I always talk this way?' You must come with us. You left the scene of an accident without informing the authorities,' or words to that effect. In view of the fact that no one else was involved except for the Mini and the tree, I begged to differ with the fuzz. Worse, while trying to charm the female cop, I made a romantic suggestion to her. Well. I never! Off we went to the hospital for a blood test and to the sta tion which — predictably — had been shut tight since ten the previous evening. When I pointed this out, the two Sherlocks scratched their heads and drove me back to Palataki. where a welcoming committee was up in arms. Oh yes, I almost forgot. As I was being escorted from my house, I took a bust of Il Duce with me. Mussolini is hardly my hero, but as his image is being revised in Italy, I thought it might help. When asked who else was in the car with me, and whether I was the driver, I pointed at II Duce and put the blame on him. Well, I never, yet again.
If this was an omen, 2003 looks bleak. There's absolutely no snow, the place is crawling with rich nobodies, and the Goths
are at the gates. Mind you, it could be worse. For example, I wouldn't want to be
in George Soros's shoes, found guilty in France on charges of insider trading. Or I could be questing for the America's Cup down under, and, after spending hundreds of millions, be facing charges of stealing design secrets — as Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen and the cellphone entrepreneur Craig McCaw are. Incidentally, sportsmanship and fair play were once part of the America's Cup rules. Try and tell that to a vulgarian like Larry Ellison, leader of the Oracle BMW syndicate. Ellison once said, 'Whatever I want, I get; that's the beauty of being worth 26 billion.' (I assume that does not include sportsmanship and fair play.) Personally. although a great Kiwi fan. I am rooting for the Alinghi group, headed by Ernesto Bertarelli, Switzerland's richest man, and heir to a Swiss pharmaceutical fortune. Bertarelli has just joined the Gstaad Yacht Club, whose board of admis sions is headed by yours truly. Two summers ago, he came on board the Leander to visit Gianni Agnelli, and he could not have been nicer. He's married to a pretty young Brit, and has just built a humongous chalet in Gstaad. He has nothing in common with people like Allen. McCaw and Ellison except for the billions. If he wins, and he's second favourite after the reigning champi on and defender New Zealand, the 64 dollar question is where he'll choose to defend. For some of you unfamiliar with Swiss banks, Switzerland is landlocked. (If the Hungarians could have an admiral, Horthy, for their big chief, why can't the Swiss defend the Cup on a glacier?)
Be that as it may. If! end up in the clink for making a pass at a woman policeman, you'll be hearing from me next week from Ch ion.
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