Gstaad
I went to a wonderful party, three days of a non-stop feast. Although not at the Palace, mere hoi polloi were excluded, in theory at least.
There was no sign of a Kate or a Mick — they must have forgotten the date. Actually, they were not invited, but Topper (who no one could say is a pleb — well bred is his motto, or is it well fed?) was there, as were Freddy and Minnie and Lolly and Bunny and George. I couldn’t have liked it more.
Sorry, Sir Noël, but I write this rather hung over, the Muse having silently slipped away in the snow at around six-thirty this morning on my way home. Some 430 swells flew over the Atlantic for Philip Radziwill’s marriage to Devon Schuster, his childhood sweetheart, a romantic but spectacular wedding in the snow-covered village of Gstaad, where the groom’s parents have a chalet. The timing was perfect. Gstaad resembles Yemen during the holidays, but then things quieten down until the February rush that turns this beautiful Alpine town into Beirut, with a bit of downtown Moscow thrown in for good measure. So, in the middle of January, while hoi polloi were back chasing the not-so-mighty buck, the swells arrived for some serious partying among the sheltering mountains of the Bernese Oberland, the German part of good old Helvetia which I love. (French-speaking Switzerland I find bogus-chic, and the Italian part slightly Sloaney-phony.)
What a pleasure it was not to run into anime-style creatures with exaggerated cheeks, lips and breasts. No pouting Jade Jaggers stinking up the place with their self-importance, certainly no desperate, publicity-seeking Paris Hilton types; just a lot of young good-looking people having fun. The parents of the groom are very old and good friends of mine. The mother, Eugenie Radziwill, is actually a childhood friend. As is her husband John. I first met John’s father, Stas, when he was JFK’s brother-in-law. He was married to Jackie’s much prettier sister Lee, but the marriage I always thought to be a rocky one, and it ended in divorce sometime during the Seventies. Stas liked to have a good time and we used to hit the clubs together when he came to Paris. He would have enjoyed last weekend as he had an eye for the ladies, to say the least. Just before I sat down to write this column I glanced at the papers and saw pictures of a hoodie delivering a small package to 18-year-old Georgia Jagger, and a report of the de rigueur punch-up which followed and ended Georgia’s birthday celebration in London. Oh, to be in England, with its hoodies and its punch-ups, but for the moment I think I’ll stick to Switzerland.
And a hell of a party that was. Miles of silk covered the permanent tent that houses four tennis courts, and miles of marble underneath the Radziwill portraits that plastered the tent. The Radziwills were electors of Poland, which means they were elected to be kings, not a bad idea even back then. Another good idea was to start the fun with a mountain fondue party on Friday, with cabins well stacked with warm glühwein taking the merrymakers to the top. For some strange reason, coming down seemed to go much quicker and then it was on to the Palace GreenGo club until dawn. Next day came the wedding in the beautiful Saanen church followed by the ball. In between, however, I had been asked to give a lunch for some who flew over for the bash, which did not turn out to be a great success even if I say so myself. I felt too ill and had to leave in the middle for some cross-country skiing to be ready for the evening. A rather rude thing to do but necessary. My great buddy John Sutin played host, although he wasn’t feeling his best either — not helped by the Alpine coat of lemon green he was wearing.
And a funny thing happened that evening. I danced with a married lady while very much in my cups and kissed her. Right on the kisser. After a while I wanted some more, asked her to dance once again and applied the Taki method. Not best pleased, she pushed me away. Never one to insist, I sat down and complained to a friend of mine about the volatility of females. ‘But that was her twin,’ my friend George told me, ‘and they’re wearing identical dresses.’ Figuring that I might pick on the wrong twin again, I gave up and concentrated on some of my daughter’s friends. For dancing only, that is.
Now I’m left with some wonderful memories and an enlarged liver for my troubles. My son John Taki set a new record in the Taki Cup as he raced up to the Eagle Club in 36 minutes. Ten years ago, when the competition began, 59 minutes was the record that was supposed to be unbreakable. And JT did it without sleep and having skied all day. He does even better with the fairer sex — he’s separated from his Italian wife and has two young children — but the reason I consider him an ungrateful son who hates his father is that he absolutely refuses to put in a good word for his old man to past or present girlfriends. In fact, he tells them I’m happily married, a vulgar abuse of the truth.
Comments