A cloudless sky. Crunchy spring snow. Longer, warmer days—I finally got in some good skiing, twisting around moguls like an arthritic champ. It’s all in the mind, as my old wrestling coach would tell me: If you think the other guy’s better, you’re bound to lose to him. The same goes for the slope. If it scares you, stay in the club and have another drink. Otherwise, attack it with gusto and feel like a champ again. The ...

At a chic dinner party last week, a friendly chow—as big and black as a dog can be without being a bear—sniffed a lady’s bum during a predinner drink. I happened to be standing behind the lady, and she raised her hand in anger. “It’s Bessie the dog,” I stammered. “What is wrong with you? I don’t do that anymore.” The lady in question is of a certain age, and the last one at the party I’d goose, but such are ...

A lousy fortnight if ever there was one. Two great friends, Lord Belhaven and Stenton and Aleko Goulandris, had their 90th-birthday celebrations, and I missed both shindigs because of this damn bug. Lord Belhaven’s was in London, at the Polish Club, but flying there was verboten. Robin Belhaven is an old Etonian, served as an officer in Northern Ireland, farmed in Scotland, has four children, eight grandchildren, and one ...

Who was it who said that behind every great fortune lies a great crime? The answer is a Frenchman by the name of Balzac, known as a pretty good novelist in his time. Well, is stealing an idea and making untold billions as a result a great crime? I suppose if it were my idea and some ghastly nerd from New Jersey whom I had hired to apply it had stolen it, I"€™d classify it as such, but I would also make sure he never walked ...

GSTAAD—Back in the good old days a funicular used to take skiers up, bucking all the way and at times stopping when the snowdrifts got too deep across the track. We used to wax our skis at every opportunity, deposit them in the baggage car, and ride the outdoor car. Most of us had a flask with good stuff in it, and once on top we’d push our laced-up boots into the toe irons and clamp them shut. We’d then wrap the long ...

From my chalet high up above the village, I look up at the immense mountain range of the glistening Alps and my spirit soars. Even youthful memories receding into sepia cannot bring me down from the high. Mountains, more than the sea, can be exhilarating for the soul. Then I open the newspapers and the downer is as swift as an alpine blizzard. Television is even more of a bummer. Last week I saw Piers Morgan tell an American TV ...

GSTAAD—One’s unpopularity for calling it a night diminishes in direct proportion to the severity of the next morning’s hangover. I was literally booed by Geoffrey Moore & Co. for asking the wife of a friend to drive me 200 yards to my chalet. Co., not Geoffrey, had other plans for the lady, and I will let you, the readers, take two guesses what those plans were. It was 5.30 a.m., the friend’s wife did look awfully ...

I write this from a small village high up in the Swiss Alps, where I have just left the tiny police station with a warning: Arab women are permitted in the Swiss-German part of the country to totally cover their face and body. The Italian part of Switzerland has forbidden it, but I was unaware that the German part had done a Merkel and allowed the full burka, hence I had demanded some Arab women to take them off. An eagle-eyed ...

When I was young my recurring nightmare was that I would die and be reincarnated as a polo pony. I squeezed in lots of polo in the years I played, at least three matches per week, mostly in Paris, and I felt that polo ponies had the kind of deal the mass media is handing Trump as I write. I wasn’t mad about the people I played with, either. Back then, in the ’60s and ’70s, fat businessmen who cantered hired good ...

When I saw an e-mail waiting from Lucy, the lady who has the unenviable task of editing my copy each week, I knew something was wrong. And sure enough it was, the bad news that my first editor in my beloved Spectator had died. Forty years, gone in a jiffy. It was back in 1977, and I had gone to Turin to pick up a new car on my way to Paris. Back then one had to drive the first thousand miles slowly while breaking in the engine. ...

GSTAAD—The snows came tumbling down just as the camel drivers headed back to the Gulf. In fact, they never saw the white outdoor stuff. And a good thing it was, too. The outdoor stuff makes everything look so pretty, the glitzy types might be tempted to return. God forbid. And let them stick to the white indoor stuff. The problem with Gstaad is the local council. They remind me of the EU: They’re intransigent and ...

ATHENS—I can only sardonically ask whether it was worth it. To be executed after unspeakable torture without giving anything away—and for what? Fat, greedy, avaricious, and very rich Davos Man? Or those ignorant, self-indulgent, cowardly little twerps who demand “safe spaces” in universities? Was it worth dying for the crooks of Brussels and the Angela Merkels of this world? Poor, heroic, and stoic Kostas Perrikos, ...

There are Dames and there are dames. Dame Vivien, an old friend, became one for her philanthropy. Dame Edna, the creation of yet another friend, was damed for her middle-class morality and upper-class pretensions. And now we have Dame Anna of Vogue, honored for affecting a faux aristocratic grandeur to the peasants of the fashion world. There is only one thing to say, and that’s “Gimme a break.” Here we have the last of ...

GSTAAD—New Year’s Eve was a Rhapsody in Blue, with a clarinet glissando that promised joys to come, and the Gershwin downbeat not registering until 6 a.m. The hangover was, of course, Karamazovian, but who the hell cares? I am finally solid again, and even the flu I caught on the trip over is on its last legs, lingering and as annoying as EU regulations, but no longer to be taken seriously. I had lots of close friends for ...

Call me old-fashioned and I will thank you for the compliment. Call me a fool for rosy nostalgia and more thanks will be in order. Yes, Fred and Ginger are my favorite movie couple, and last year while recuperating from a broken leg, I watched four of their movies back-to-back shown on Turner Classic Movies. I haven’t stepped into a movie theater in years, and only watch TCM and a few sports on the idiot box. The latter has ...

Here we go again, another Christmas issue and it seems only two weeks ago that I filed for the last one. This is a very happy time of year: parties galore, lots of love for our fellow man, and happiness all around. Mind you, there is an old calypso ditty that tells one, “If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife…” Well, I’m not so sure about that; in my book, the prettier the ...