There was a lot of that sort of caper in Gstaad during my sojourn. Not out-and-out pimping, not prostitution, but much more backscratching than I've seen in the past, more cajolery, inducements, snowjobs, in short. But for why? As usual, the worldwide recession has something to do with it, and even the gorgeous old Eurotrash muttons are feeling the pinch. They still LOOK the same - all men over 40 are chiseled and burnished and wear a French interpretation of US streetwear from 1979; everything a little too new, everything a little too shiny*. They still regard Patek Philippe as de rigueur and their invasive cosmetic dentistry has rendered speech indistinct. The women wear high-end designer ski kit and are completely teetotal. Moreover, some of them have flown in from LUTON! It is to die, in my view. The place still looks entrancing; the allure of the snow cannot be gainsaid, and last weekend we had knee-deep powder, even on-piste, but there is something irrefutably plebby about the visitors these days that makes someone as relentlessly international, as mindlessly loaded, as myself want to cry icicle tears of longing for the old days.
The Glenda Slag brigade was out in force: clapped-out old hacks who still turn a living from writing pisspoor captions to grainy images of hasbeens, such as my dear friend, Lord Numb. Numb was my companion throughout, and was kind enough to pay for my vacance. Those in the know will guess his true identity if I reveal him as a well-known furrier from Swiss Cottage, which brings a nice symmetry to our association. We were papped one night at GreenGo. I was in palest chartreuse cashmere, with a creme de menthe coat and a pair of Kenneth Cole Broken Hearts in benedictine. Numb was flushed with drink and success and we were pictured sharing a steaming pile of gefilte fish. You probably saw it.
But, home is where the heart is! On my return, how horrified I was to read of the new killer snow that has crept into my native land instead of the old-fashioned commuter-friendly stuff we had enjoyed in Switzerland. The Scottish avalanche had claimed the lives of three stolids who hadn't heard the frozen death-blanket unfurl itself above them as they roared "Avalanche? Wot avalanche?" through their megaphone. How hideous to have misunderstood the bleak warning Do Not Schlep About Today - Avalanche Likely! My heart goes out to all those who speed-read public information notices and who think a pair of Clark's Pathfinders and an Oeuf Ecossais wrapped in greaseproof paper is enough to sustain them. How I hastened to the dear old Thicket to restore my equilibrium and to log the changes of nature, mainly floral. How I luxuriated in the familiar sounds of birdcall and the rustling of the undergrowth as it offered itself up as a brackeny bed for the dedicated doggers who do so much to make the Thicket a place of exotica!
January is the Gateway of the Year in the Thames Valley, and the snowdrops already hang their white lamps underfoot. A straggle of jasmine is aflame with gold, and the coltsfoot bright with yellow flowers, which appear before the leaves. Here and there, I saw the purplish butterbur flowers, and watched the yellow powder of the catkins carried on the wind. There are a few early celandines in the grass and both the Goat willows and White willows are in flower already. Most unusually, the red deadnettles are out. Unlike common nettles, they carry no sting.
I am having a bad time at the moment. Today I listened to Mark Ronson's cover of Stop Me over and over again. Unlike the Smiths' version, it carries no sting.
Stop me, oh stop me, stop me if you think you've heard this one before,
Who said I lied, because I never
Who said I lied, because I never
I was detained, I was restrained
I broke my spleen, and broke my knee
And then he really laid into me
Who said I lied, because I never
So I drank one and it became four
And when I fell on the floor
I drank more.
Stop me, stop me, if you think you've heard this one before.
*unlike Kev Musgrove, of course. His clothes get shinier with AGE.
