Bicyclists in burkas

Bicyclists in burkas
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The Swiss canton of Ticino is holding a referendum on a burka ban, and it is about time, too. Burka, niqab, it’s all Arabic to me, although I understand first hand how deep-seated the hatred of women is in Arab countries and that men wish to cover them up. Funnily enough, when you see these bearded assholes shouting on TV, it is the men who are so ugly it should be mandatory for them to cover up.

When I lived in the Sudan and Egypt, a punishment from my father for running up debts — she was beautiful, a famous Hollywood actress, and very expensive, who taught me rather a lot about sex. What was I supposed to do, take her to the automat (the el cheapo of the time)? — women dressed like Europeans. I’ve written all about this already, but once Farouk fell in 1952, creepy Islamism reared its ugly head.

The hatred of women is an endemic barbarism of Islam, no ifs or buts about it. And in Ticino, the Italian part of Switzerland, they are about to put it to a vote. The Brits, as usual, are leading from behind. Both the French and the Belgians have forbidden women — if they are women — to walk around totally covered up. The Swiss love money too much to throw out all these bums who force their women to look like Caspar the Ghost, so they are putting it to a vote. The Frogs, mind you, do not always enforce the ban, but turn a blind eye when a fat rich Arab goes shopping with his ghosts on the Champs-Elysée. Ditto the yellow-spined Belgians. I find it incredible that in the era of terror bombings a person can totally conceal themselves, and the act be defended by people who sit on parliamentary benches.

Almost as ridiculous as the clown last week who took exception to the fact that Nigel Farage was named a prefect at his school while in his teens. Channel 4 news began the programme with this earth-shattering revelation. The man who broke the story, one ridiculous-looking baldie with bad teeth who shouts a lot, was Michael Crick. He went on interviewing pupils and masters of Farage’s school, trying to get them to call him (Farage) names. He failed miserably. Nigel was named a prefect by the powers-that-be of the school, graduated honourably and went on to a successful career in the City. He now heads the third biggest political party in the UK. Crick failed to make the case that Nigel sang fascist songs while a teenager — which he didn’t. The Ukip leader’s great crime as a teenager was to defend Enoch Powell, one of the greatest men to sit on benches now soiled by the likes of those who defend those veils on women. Go figure, as they say in Brooklyn, where I hope to visit next week.

And while on the subject, as I walked down Gstaad’s main street a totally covered-up person whizzed by on a bicycle. Main Street in Gstaad is a car-free area now made much more dangerous by Arab women — again, if they are women — trying to stay upright on two wheels. After avoiding her, I watched while a group of covered-up ladies slowly made their way around the expensive shops that line the street. ‘Hi, girls,’ I yelled at them and smiled. ‘Relax, this is Switzerland, put on your bikinis.’ A fat man approached me and started the usual fist-pumping and looking like Orlando Furioso. But the only real Orlando Furioso was the poor little Greek boy, who told him to shut the f*** up, that this was still a free country and that he would be chewing on his gums sooner rather than later if his manner didn’t improve. Guess what? It improved. A couple of Swiss taxi drivers who witnessed the scene congratulated me, but of course they wouldn’t dare do it themselves because their tips would suffer. And you should have seen Bernie Ecclestone’s waiters. They disappeared, in case there was a fight, which was the last thing on the fat little man’s mind.

What’s sad about all this is not the ghosts who walk up and down the street all day looking for jewels and expensive trinkets, but the fact that I was on Main Street looking for a ski shop and couldn’t find one. When I first arrived in Switzerland back in 1958, all there was were ski shops. Now it’s all splash and glitter, with the butcher and cheese shops replaced by ‘haute couture’ stores that sell overpriced jewels to women who are not allowed to show themselves.

Is it still possible to find remnants of the old Gstaad? Well, if one goes climbing or walking up hills it’s very unlikely that one would run into concealed persons in black. Also while on the slopes one is safe from out-of-control ghosts on bicycles. But I’m a night person and like to hit the hot spots after midnight. That’s when my culture and theirs clash. I’m off to New York, so I shall have a bit of a rest, but I predict a rough winter. Between the Russians and the Caspars, I will be fighting on two fronts.