Taki

Gstaad A London friend has sent me a book whose subject caused a few faint complaints in the beginning but has now escalated to a full-scale furore, Jimmy Carter’s Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid. Racist and anti-Semitic have been the operative words used by outraged pundits to describe it, while people such as the Harvard law professor Alan Dershowitz

Style is the most abused word in the English language. It is usually attributed to fashionable people by those not in the know. Style, however, is an elusive quality, and few fashionable people and almost no celebrities possess it outright.  No one is capable of buying it, although thousands try. The dictionary defines ‘style’ as

Gstaad Penned in by the surrounding Alps, huddled around the Saanen valley and scrambling up the mountains for extra space, Gstaad bursts at the seams during the New Year celebrations. For the first time in its 100-year history, the Palace hotel sold tickets to its premises, and they sold out three days before the night of

OK, 2007 is upon us, and the end of history, as in Francis Fukuyama’s fearless forecast of 1990, has turned out to be full of you-know-what. In fact, never in seven centuries, give or take a few, has this planet of ours been in more turmoil. Fukuyama is a great scholar, and he meant well,

New York ‘The United States is 85 per cent Christian, which means it is more Christian than India is Hindu and Israel is Jewish. Moreover, 96 per cent of Americans celebrate Christmas. So why do we have to tippy-toe around the religious meaning of Christmas every December?’ This by the Catholic League appeared as an

New York First it was Mel, as in Gibson, now it’s Michael, as in Richards. I’m sure none of you has ever heard of the latter, but he’s a big shot in America, especially among those with brains smaller than a pea. Richards played a character in Seinfeld, a programme about emptiness which is no

New York My love for Ashley Judd has gone the way of Iraq. Remember a couple of years ago, when a friend of mine offered to take me backstage to meet her and I got cold feet? I have just read an interview she gave, and I thank God for my cold tootsies. Here’s the

New York Sometimes I wonder about Americans in general and Noo Yawkers in particular. Especially while watching war films. In Saving Private Ryan, GIs seem as cool under fire as the Wehrmacht troops look cowardly and ready to throw their hands up. In reality, of course, the Germans fought gallantly against overwhelming odds in men

The telephone rings and a downmarket voice greets me with a cheery hello. ‘This is Peter McKay, your old friend,’ says the bubbly one. ‘We hear that Vanity Fair paid for your party.’ For any of you unfamiliar with McKay, he is a scandal-purveyor of talent, malice and unparalleled mischief, who writes under the pseudonym

The trouble with throwing a party is it only lasts for a few hours. Compared with the time and effort it takes to organise, it seems, well, a waste of time. John Aspinall spent months preparing the extravagances he used to stage at Howletts and Port Lympne, his perfect Palladian structure near Canterbury. At one

I have received some very complimentary letters about my 22 July column, the one dealing with the plight of a Palestinian female doctor in Gaza. I will not mention the names because they were, after all, private messages. You know who you are and I thank you. And now for the bad news: my Washington

On board Bushido The little village of Assos lies in the shadow of a Venetian fort off the western side of Kefalonia. From afar, it appears as a dark-blue dot, almost indistinguishable from the shimmering sea mist. But, as the boat surges closer, the rugged mountain peaks above Assos gain definition and then the tiny

On board S/Y Bushido We’re sailing off Fiscardo, Kefalonia, a corruption of the name of Robert Guiscard, the Norman invader who met stiff resistance when he attacked and took Kefalonia in 1082. Guiscard died of the fever on board his ship off the town which bears his name in 1085. Fiscardo is the best-kept secret

Rome Frankly, this was not a cool wedding. There were no security guards, no stretch limos, no Liz Hurleys, no cutting-edge genetic technology, not even a same-sex marriage. Not very with it, I know, but there we are. John Taki and Assia got hitched last Saturday in the most magical setting I have ever seen

When was the last time one cried for having to leave London at a weekend for two days on a beautiful sailing boat in the south of France? Actually, last week, when the mother of my children gave me an ultimatum to come down or else. Why, oh why, are women so unreasonable? Just because I

The Fitzdares’ party at Annabel’s was not quite the kind of shindig I was expecting. After all, Fitzdares is a bespoke bookmaker, and bookies are not known for classy parties, only for classy fleecing of their clients. Not Fitzdares, however; a company I have invested in along with the Goldsmith boys and James Osborne, uncle

Suleiman Khan, son of Imran and Jemima, got me out late last Saturday, after a fast-bowling Ben Elliot had failed to do so despite employing all sorts of tricks against the poor little Greek boy, who only took up cricket aged 64. There was only one thing wrong. Suleiman is nine years old and less

From my open window in Cadogan Gardens I can hear a woman’s lovely voice singing something from Mozart’s Requiem; at least I think it’s Mozart’s oeuvre. One can never go wrong with Wolfie at a hot and brilliant sunny day’s end, especially when the rest of the world’s slobs are out there singing football songs

On board S/Y Bushido We hit a hurricane while sailing off the coast of the Riviera last week, or, to be more precise, a hurricane called Tim Hoare hit us. I have never in my long life met anyone quite like Tim. The words tumble out so fast, enwrapped in alliteration and so clogged with