Thank God the Connerys have taken a place here. The town needs them, as the nouveaux are slowly turning this place into an alpine Miami Beach. The old guard is trying its best to hold the barbarians out, but we have as much chance of winning as the protesters do in Libya. The barbarians have weapons of mass destruction—money, greed, and horrible manners. A ghastly German woman by the name of Engelhorn has bought out most of the beautiful old village houses and turned them into expensive boutiques for the old and the pulled-to-the-extreme. Local butchers, cheesemakers, and artisans have been priced out. Jewelers have replaced them. It is enough to make a sensitive soul like myself break down and cry. “The only ones missing,” I told my oldest friend, Aleko Goulandris, “are the grotesque Bono and Jeffrey Epstein.” He had heard of neither of them, as a gentleman should not.

Speaking of Bono, this unspeakable vulgarian and publicity hound has caused anger among the few good people left in South Africa by suggesting support for an anti-white song that includes the line “shoot the Boer.” He drew comparisons between the song and Irish Republican drivel, calling it a legitimate part of political activism. I suppose shooting white farmers (over 3,000 have been killed since apartheid ended) is nothing more than a folk song for scum such as Bono, but the only answer I have for this disgusting exhibitionist and opportunist is to write a ditty called “Shoot Bono.” I shall present it to you upon its completion. In the meantime, if any white farmer shoots him, not to worry. There are plenty of these egomaniacs around. Too many, in fact.

So there we have it. One more winter gone down memory lane and tens if not hundreds of hours on the slopes soon to be replaced by the grind of the dojo and the gym. The judo world championships have been moved from Cairo to Frankfurt—I wonder why—and I have two months to prepare. I’m in excellent shape despite the injuries, and I guarantee all loyal Taki’s Mag readers that I shall return with a medal. If Teodorin Obiang, son of Equatorial Guinea’s brutal dictator—his father’s subjects have no clean water and subsist on worms, yet the place is flush with cash because of oil and gas deposits—can contemplate ordering a gin palace worth close to $500 million, surely the poor little Greek boy can dream of winning gold in Germany. Next stop: the Big Bagel.