Talk about high life, this is not. I smelled a rat long ago. Then the scent got weaker and weaker. But now it’s back, stronger than ever. It has, of course, to do with the Saudis, the Qataris, and the son-in-law who has also risen, Jared Kushner. About a year ago, the Saudis issued an ultimatum to Qatar, threatening a blockade by Saudi-allied countries in the Gulf. All sorts of accusations were made and 24 hours were given to ...

NEW YORK—“What Do We Do With These Men?” thunders a New York Times front-page headline, followed by a mouth-frothing, overwrought hissy fit worthy of an Oscar in the overacting department. These “men” are the usual suspects: media people and Hollywood types who have been accused by the weaker sex of sexual harassment. Oh, boy! Is this place going nuts or what? Spring is here, the girls are in their summer ...

Benito lives! The Blackshirts are here. Fascism is on the march—at least according to Madeleine Albright, secretary of state under Bill Clinton and—in my book, having allowed Albanian gangsters to win power in Kosovo—the worst American foreign minister ever. She attacks Hungary and Poland, the left’s newest whipping boys, for preferring their own kind to African migrants, but she’s not alone. The usual suspects are ...

NEW YORK—Remember when the Internet, Twitter, Facebook, and other such useless gimmicks were supposed to usher in an era of transparency and knowledgeable bliss? These gizmos make George Orwell’s 1984 redundant, no longer science fiction but more Knights of the Round Table. Big Brother is more powerful and all-knowing than ever before, and we have that Errol Flynn look-alike Mark Zuckerberg to thank. There is no such thing ...

April, according to the poet, is the cruelest month, and it got crueler 106 years ago when the Titanic hit the iceberg—and Hollywood the jackpot, after the sinking. Being a shipowner’s son—tankers and dry cargoes, not passenger ships—I sympathized with the owners, White Star Line, pushing the envelope to set a record, but still. Going full out in a minefield of icebergs known to lurk nine-tenths beneath the water’s ...

As anyone who has ever tripped the light fantastic with a witch knows, Circe was not only a witch, she could also at times be a bitch, and a sorceress. She was, after all, the daughter of the Sun and a goddess in her own right. If she were around today she would most probably be the first American female president, her specialty being turning men into pigs. When poor old battered Odysseus landed on Circe’s island, having lost ...

NEW YORK—If Albanian television had shown the program CBS showed last week—with a woman who has sex on camera for a living describing how she had unprotected BingBing with The Donald—I think even Albanians would feel so diminished they’d move to Kosovo. But this is America, and it’s a woman’s, woman’s, woman’s world! Or perhaps a frontal lobe is missing. The reverential coverage afforded to a porn actress by ...

At dinner the other night a friend wondered what came first, social climbing or name-dropping? It’s obviously a very silly question, and we all had a laugh over it: “As Achilles told me in his tent the other evening, Helen always fancied him and Menelaus didn’t like it a bit.” Or, “I’m rather tired of listening to Claudius complaining that Agrippina doesn’t hold a candle to Messalina in the sack.” We played that ...

A couple of columns ago I wrote about an incident that took place at the Eagle Club here in Gstaad. I indicated that if cowardice prevailed, I would go into details. I had two weeks to think about these details. Well, the trouble is that cowardice did prevail, and although the Eagle has not lived up to the requirements of a club, what happens in a club stays in a club, and I need to live up to the standards of someone who ...

I never made it to Zurich but met up with Steve Bannon through the miracle of technology, thanks to my hosts at Weltwoche, the Swiss weekly. They gave him my telephone number and he rang at a civilized time and we had a very cozy chat for an hour or so. I don’t know how it was done, and don’t ask me for details, but I could see him and apparently so could he see me. The first thing I said was that I was 100 percent ...

The muffled sound of falling snow is ever present. It beautifies the dreary and turns the bleak into magic. Happiness is waking up and seeing a winter wonderland. From where I am I cannot hear the shrieks of children sledding nearby, but I can see the odd off-piste skier leaving traces behind. I no longer can handle deep snow, just powder, but can still shoot down any piste once I’ve had a drink or two. For amusement I ...

Okay, all you readers: You are weak, easily manipulated, led by the nose to the gutter, susceptible to the devils of your diabolical urges, and mad. In fact you are the unspeakables, the deplorables who voted for Trump, and a man by the name of Roger Cohen says so. Needless to say, he writes for The New York Times, but as far as I know, the only true thing he’s ever written is that he’s Jewish and that his name is Roger ...

Gstaad—They have busy eyes, and the set of their mouths is that of a hungry carnivore, their hands always working, stroking, exaggerating, guiding sharp elbows to the last. They’re salesmen to the rich and famous and fob them trinkets and pictures and dresses—and at times even people. They gush like no Hollywood agent ever did, and once upon a time I used to feel very sorry for them. That was when they used to try to sell ...

Gstaad—It was nostalgia time at Prince Victor Emmanuel’s birthday party here, with many old friends reminiscing about our youthful shenanigans in times gone by. Victor—the pretender to the Italian throne—and I go back a long way, more than sixty years. In a very roundabout manner, so do our families. His namesake and grandfather, King Victor Emmanuel, facilitated Benito Mussolini’s rise to power, although he was the ...

#Me Too! It happened right here, in Gstaad, last week. A man in his mid-50s, around six feet tall and about 165 pounds, forcibly grabbed me by the neck, pushed my head down, and then slid his hand between my legs. He continued to do that in a very dominating and aggressive way—he could have passed for Kevin Spacey, but with his own hair—pulling at my thighs, clawing at my chest, always pulling me closer and closer while ...

A Moment in Time reminded me of English women expatriates I had met in the South of France more than fifty years ago. They were very proud of being British, never tired of telling us they were British, were rather broke, and talked down to average people. They spoke about Colonel so-and-so, or Lord and Lady so-and-so, some of whom were distantly related to them, or perhaps were just acquaintances. It also reminded me of ...