High life | 27 August 2011

Gstaad

Forget about Libya, and don’t even think about Syria, the mother of all battles is about to take place right here, in bucolic Gstaad, a place of terminal political incorrectness — until recently, that is. But before I begin, the Beguine is far more likely to see Saif Gaddafi than this glitzy Mecca of the nouveaux riches, the Beguine being a religious order in the Netherlands, where The Hague Criminal Court is situated.

Personally, I’d rather see Libyan justice meted out, and pronto. Like hanging a jockstrap out to dry, if you get my drift. The Gaddafi I’d most like to see acting as a jockstrap is Hannibal, the fat slob who has besmirched a glorious name by going around in super-yachts and private Boeings, and beating up women and helpless servants just for kicks — and getting away with it all these years. Hannibal should be forced to serve as a prostitute in a Libyan male brothel, unless he likes it, that is — he is a cognoscente of the profession — with his brother Saadi, the least talented football player ever, who was actually given a try-out by Juventus after buying 7 per cent of the team, washing up after him. Now that’s what I would call real moral justice, none of that 20 hours per day television-watching in The Hague, conjugal visits included. As of writing, the old mongrel is still nowhere to be seen, but if he has one brave bone left in his cowardly body, he will shoot himself in the arse, where his brain is located.