My #MeToo moment
Finally, #MeToo! It happened right here, in Gstaad, last week. A man in his mid-fifties, six foot tall and 165lb, grabbed me forcibly by the neck, pushed my head down, and then slid his hand between my legs. He continued to do so in a very dominating and aggressive way — he could have passed for Kevin Spacey, but with his own hair — pulling at my thighs, clawing at my chest, always drawing me closer and closer while breathing heavily on my neck. I couldn’t move my head, so I finally succumbed and lay back.
Yes, dear reader, however horrible it might sound to you — after all, I’m 81 — at times a boy has to surrender to superior force. Part of the account that you read above was plagiarised from Kate Upton’s description of a Hollywood type doing to her what Hollywood types do to models and actresses. My attacker was Richard Amos, my karate sensei, with whom I was doing judo after a very spirited karate session. I am an ex-world champion — in the 70-and-over category — in judo, but Richard has done enough to embarrass me, once in a while, on the judo mat. As he did last week, although I never tapped out. Mind you, Richard is no Harvey Weinstein. With Harvey on top I most likely would have tapped out — he’s too heavy a load.
Last week was the best one yet. No, not because of the wrestling scene I described above, but because of the twice-daily karate sessions that took up the best part of the week, ending with the mixed drill of 15 seconds fighting and 15 seconds wrestling to round it all off. While Richard and I were writhing on the ground trying to choke each other out, my mind wandered back to Hollywood. Wouldn’t it be better — nicer really — if the men tried to do it the old-fashioned way, by whispering sweet nothings in a girl’s ear, instead of using the Eichmann method of Procrustean sex? I think it would, by far.
Never mind. Life up here in the Alps is beautiful. The snow keeps falling, and I went to a party where they served caviar that a friend brought back from China. In the course of a rather drunken evening, one remark stood out. It was made by a pregnant lady who is married to Andrea Casiraghi, Princess Caroline’s son. “What kind of woman goes up to a man’s hotel room and stays there while he goes to take a shower?” “The kind that comes to Gstaad to find a live one,” answered yours truly before the booing began.
Hangovers are easy to get over in the thin air of the Alps. Both of my grandchildren are attending the JFK school in the next-door village of Saanen, and they’re up at 7.30 am each day except for the weekend. They ski in the afternoons. They race every Saturday and Sunday — they are 12 and 10 — but the big race will be the one sometime in March, when their father will set up a slalom course and they will race against yours truly. I have predicted victory by 30 seconds. My boy JT tells me that little Taki will win by half a minute, but the little shit doesn’t yet know it.
Mind you, skiing is not for old men. I don’t know why, but I’ve been scared witless of falling since the age of 60, something I could not fathom when I was young. I used to take spectacular falls. Nothing ever happened to me, except a broken leg and a torn rotator cuff and a broken ankle and two broken thumbs. It might sound like a lot but it’s not. Now I’m scared to fall doing less than 10 mph.
It’s the same with women. I used to have a good chat-up line but wouldn’t dream of using it now. An oldie trying to pick up a young woman reminds me of overwrought New York Times columnists hysterically trying to reverse electoral outcomes.
Finally, I am told that my sexual harassment lawsuit against Mary Wakefield, Lara Prendergast and every other female employee of the Spectator is progressing. My American lawyers are confident of victory. “You are the male version of a Harvey Weinstein victim,” is the way they put it to me. Yippee! By arrangement with
the Spectator