Mama was a Spartan

Dripping with malice, envy and venom, hacks are having the time of their life as Conrad Black goes to trial in Chicago, a city known for its smiling wallet-lifters and corrupt public officials. Not since Fat Bob Maxwell took a dive into the Med back in 1991 have those holier than thou members of the Fourth Estate enjoyed themselves as much. The trouble is there’s quite a difference. Maxwell stole hundreds of millions….

Barack Obama sounds very exotic but he is an unknown quantity with a 100 percent liberal voting record, whose only claim to instant fame is his skin color. What the hell is going on here? Just because a part-black man has obvious charisma and is soft-spoken and decent, is it enough to make him president? Why not pick an even nicer guy like Colin Powell?

Back in the Fifties, Gstaad was a tiny alpine village without supermarkets nor boutiques. There were a few chairlifts and sledge trains—funicular railways—which crept up its gentle slopes. All in all there were about 2,000 beds, a few inns, three or four picturesque restaurants which served good but simple food, and the Palace hotel. The town was pure heaven.

No politician except for those wishing to retire immediately will risk the wrath of the Israel lobby.

Erich Maria Remarque was a hell of a man. Good looking, a terrific womanizer and a heavy drinker, he bedded most Hollywood stars he came into contact with, and he came into contact with many of them. He was Marlene Dietrich’s favorite beau, was married to Paulette Goddard, and had affairs with Greta Garbo (yes, she made an exception in his case) Dolores del Rio, Lupe Velez and Louise Rainer, to name but a few….

It was 1890, and the opera was Lucia di Lamermoor. The Donizetti masterpiece was conducted by a Bulgarian maestro and the opera house–recently opened–was filled by Greek society in the good seats, and by poor people, who had never heard an opera in their lives, who were more or less bribed off the street by fancy types to act as a rapt audience. Everything went fine, for a while….

Nixon was demonised by the press from day one. He was ill at ease in public, and did not possess the Kennedy blarney which so endeared that flawed Irish clan to the chattering classes. He was not cool, as my son would say, but so what? After all, is style superior to substance, especially where politics are concerned? Nixon inherited Vietnam, realised the war was unwinnable, got out with honour, and gained China… Now that’s what I call a statesman.

The real reason for American rage against Iran is the knowledge that the Shiites have made complete fools of them. Shiite exiles like the conman Ahmad Chalabi not only took Yankee gold, but sold them snake oil no five-year-old would buy. They then conned Uncle Sam in removing Iran’s most ferocious opponent in the region, making the mullahs the dominant power of the area.

Andy Warhol was a unique American phenomenon. When his infamous diaries came out – the first best-seller purposely without an index, so fame groupies could not read about themselves in the bookstore and then not buy the opus – I was surprised to find myself mentioned almost as many times as some minor celebrities. Warhol knew more about what was going on in nightclubs than we knew about ourselves because he didn’t drink or take drugs. He also did not look for sex.

Prizes and awards depend on whims of insiders, nothing more, nothing less. Certain themes are sacrosanct, such as disabilities. Hence Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot and Geoffrey Rush in Shine. The Academy also has intellectual pretensions. Shakespearian and Mozartian themes have won the biggest prize, as has a Shakespearian actor like John Gielgud in the ridiculous Arthur.

When an Italian finishes making love he looks at the mirror, flexes his muscles and tells himself, Magnifico! When a Frenchman is through, he tells the lady that she may have captured his body but not his soul. When an Englishman finally manages it he asks, “Was it good for you too, George?”