Why I’m moving to England

It is not exactly a stop all the clocks occasion, let alone cut off the telephone, but I’ve finally come to a decision. My looking-at-cows time is over. I am going to leave good old Helvetia and find somewhere nice in the green and ‘unpleasant land’ I read about in Charles Moore’s Notes last week. (Corinne Fowler, what a halfwit; now, according to her, the British countryside is racist.) Easier said than done. The reason I want to move is that I’ve had it. For the first time in my life I’m bored with my surroundings.

Sixty-two years is a long time, but then Gstaad isn’t the charming little alpine village it once was. It still has charm but is not so little any more, with every blade of grass that’s not farmland covered by a wooden structure. My chalet, which I’m keeping and will use on out-of-season weekends, is surrounded by farmland, so for the moment I am safe — safe but bored. I mean, there’s Jeremy Clarke flying all over Europe’s hot spots on The Spectator’s private jet, while the poor little Greek boy stands still looking at cows (one of them in particular, which has taken a shine to me, reminds me of Vivien Duffield). Time to blow this trap. I have three options: Athens, New York or the English countryside.

I’ll start with the Bagel, where I have a jewel of a flat on Park Avenue and my closest of friends, Michael Mailer. The city right now is paralysed by race-driven maniacs intent on intimidation and looting. Habitual criminals are running wild, the murder rate is out of control and there is a plan by the Democrats to further defund the police. The on dit is that the city is in far worse shape than it was 45 years ago, which is when I had some of my best times in the Bagel.