High life | 21 January 2012

Gstaad
‘Mick Flick invites you to the Roaring Twenties’ read the invite, a black-and-white stiffy with a flapper and a Rudolph Valentino type in white tie and tails, flirting in the old-fashioned manner, she dreamlike, flapping her eyes upwards, he looking swarthy and passionate and standing over her. In the background, a roomful of swells in their finest are tripping the light fantastic.

It is rare for a party to live up to expectations, especially one to which people come from very far away. I’ve given a few in my life and none of them has ever truly clicked. Perhaps it’s a matter of luck, but mainly it has to do with preparation. I haven’t got the patience, but Mick is German, a Mercedes-Benz heir, and very thorough. I have rarely experienced the pleasure I did when walking into the great room of the Palace Hotel, transformed into a kind of Twenties speakeasy, with nothing to remind me of today’s brutal culture: no oiks, no cheap celebrities, no publicity-seekers, no freaks.