Gstaad
If someone bet that The Spectator issue of 10 January outsold or was read by more people than any other weekly — and that includes best selling popular crap like Hello! and OK! — they’d be collecting their winnings as I write. This, of course, in the Bernese Oberland region of Switzerland, where Gstaad lies. I suppose it had to do with something concerning the Madoff gang, most of whom live around these parts, and as of this moment are pretty pissed off with a certain poor little Greek boy. As I had predicted, the gang does not fight but screams and whines a lot. Their women, rather. If a member of the weaker sex insults one, the normal thing to do is to take a swing against her man. But what happens if the man pretends to be constraining the woman? Who does one hit? The concierge?
Actually, it’s very funny. A friend of mine ran into a banker and his wife in the grill of the Palace hotel where the banker was giving a dinner, and jokingly asked them how it felt to be broke. The woman got on top of a table and screamed insults at him, calling him a preposterous poofter — my friend’s openly gay — and threatening to drive him out of Switzerland. Unfortunately I was not present. And my ridiculous friend sent her flowers the next day apologising. In other words, the gang took investors’ moolah, gave it to Madoff and when the you-know-what hit the fan turned into posturing peacocks spouting rubbish about fair play and good manners.
Two things which are in very short supply around these parts. Now, let’s get down and dirty. If there are people out there who still believe Madoff acted alone, do come and join Elvis Presley and me, both in person, in the Eagle club next week.
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