Gstaad

A heavy snowfall diverted 40-odd private jets from landing in Saanen airport, thus the one per cent of the one per cent who came to Gstaad for a grand wedding last weekend used conventional methods of travel. Actually, it was more of the 100th of one per cent whom lefties complain about, 650 of them arriving for Tatiana Santo Domingo’s marriage to Andrea Casiraghi, son of Princess Caroline of Monaco. Our host was Vera Santo Domingo, mother of the bride and widow of Julio-Mario, among the richest families of South America and from a Colombian dynasty.

It was obviously a young crowd, a hell of a lot younger than myself, anyway, and I put some of them up in my chalet, which proved rather handy later at night when I had trouble finding my way home and negotiating any stairs whatsoever. Both Friday and Saturday nights ended late, after 6 a.m., yet the goodbye brunch on Sunday was attended by most guests, including yours truly on a couple of hours sleep, and, according to the mother of my children, dressed impeccably while in bed in my dinner jacket but having taken off my dancing shoes. My left hand had bled quite a lot all over the sheets, but otherwise there were no injuries whatsoever except for the Karamazovean hangover.

Ah, how fresh and good-looking the young are after a party that lasted more than eight hours of full-time dancing and boozing, not to mention other more destructive inhales. One of my guests was young Christian of Hanover, with his truly beautiful girlfriend Alessandra, and on Sunday morning, with as little sleep as me, they looked radiant and were rushing off to Madrid with George Scott, son of Pugs president for life, Nick Scott. I don’t begrudge my age — what the hell, I’ve had a hell of a ride — but I am jealous of those who look so fresh in the morning after two nights of getting hammered. One thing that struck me was how polite Christian and Alessandra were, thanking everyone and bringing us gifts for using a bed for less than five hours in three days and two nights.

Which brings me to ex-Soviet Union slobs who use the Alps and other places I happen to hang out in. In their visa applications, there should be an obligatory declaration by the slobs themselves that they know three English words — please and thank you — and that they will use them at every opportunity, even as they pay the hookers who solicit their business. It won’t help but it will make me feel better. As Dorothy Parker said when asked to define horticulture, you can lead a whore to culture but you can’t make her think. The Palace Hotel in Gstaad has probably the best staff I have ever encountered since I started my brilliant career 55 years ago. I am very friendly with them and have never in 55 years had a cross word with anyone who works there. Many of them admitted to me that they have never heard the three magic words from the Russkies or the Gulf camel-drivers. Depending on such barbarians for one’s livelihood must be a grim business indeed. But back to the party.

At Friday’s fondue opening-night party high up on the Eggli mountain, the dress code was 1960s Pink Panther, as the film was shot in Gstaad. I wore lederhosen and an Austrian jacket, more Garmisch-Partenkirchen circa 1936, and, in the company of Jeffrey and Lulu Moore, who complied with the dress code, up we went drinking heavily in the cabin that was stuffed with booze. In no time I had spotted a heartbreaker famous princess and had sent her a quick little love poem. Discretion not being my strong point, soon half of the gallant 600 who had made it up the mountain were giving their opinions on whether the poem was working or not. It worked, partly. She and I sat down together and chatted about poetry, but that’s not what I told indiscreet people who asked. I said it was about sex, which it wasn’t until I got too drunk and broached the subject. Anyway, I ended up in my own bed with a headache as a lover.

Saturday evening after the afternoon wedding, the Tennishalle of Gstaad had been transformed into an ice lake with hundreds of trees covered in snow, but from there one descended into a Brazilian forest — Vera Santo Domingo is Brazilian-born — where a hot Samba band drove us sex maniacs wild. I danced and danced with Lulu Moore and kept putting the moves on a Belgian lady, whose billionaire hubby had just dumped her for a newer model in between dances, and that’s when I seem to have cut my hand and covered my white dinner shirt in blood. It looked dramatic but it was a tiny scratch. I told people that I had knocked out her burly billionaire hubby. Then, around 4 a.m., I spotted the famous royal of the night before. I told her that I got cut in a fight with her bodyguards trying to get into her room. (They were both priests.) One of my house guests, Charles O’Donnell, managed to haul me home at six. There is a slight sadness that creeps in after three days of non-stop partying. That’s to be expected, but what is not is that I don’t think I’ll ever see another one like this one in my lifetime. I said this to my hostess and she knocked on wood. She can keep on knocking. I know a twilight party when I see one, at least where I’m concerned.