By now you’ve arrived at page 80 and surely realised that the theme of this splendid edition of Swiss Style is Design. If you haven’t realised it, do please wake up and pay attention at the back. It’s too bad that some of us go to the trouble of writing for you and you’re not taking it in. Actually, I’m not taking much in either as I gaze out at the magnificent yachts moored in front of me in Cannes harbour. Almost without exception, they have individual design attributes that make me gasp. With envy and pleasure.

There’s the Lady Moura, a $210 million super-yacht with a 25-metre dining table made by Viscount Linley (for goodness sake, you know, the British Queen’s nephew; do get a grip) and an entire beach resort that hydraulically slides out of the side of the yacht, complete with palm trees and loungers. No, really, I’m not making this up. Promise. Nassir Al-Rashid is the owner.

Roman Abramovich has his $1.6 billion boy-toy, a 167- metre monster that needs 70 crew for the eleven guests. This comes with an on-board submarine, two helicopters and three boats, natch. But for sheer vulgarity, one has to look at the $3 billion gold plated tub being built for a Malaysian entrepreneur. It’s called History Supreme, designed by the UK jeweller, Stuart Hughes.

Looking from Cannes harbour over to the Iles Lérins, you might fancy a little boat trip. Certainly not on The History Supreme one hopes. The ferry takes about 15 minutes but if you decide to borrow a boat and do it yourself, it will take about 28 days because of all the up, down and sideways moves you’ll make. For obscure reasons, this is called tacking. Which makes no sense to me either.

I’d always thought tacking was what the odd job man did if I wanted another Rembrandt stuck up on the wall. English is full of deadly traps for the unwary. Confusingly, tacking is also a legal term relating to prioritising between two or more security interests arising over the same asset. Do we really want to go there? No, I thought not either. Of course, you’ll need a boat. Do wake up, please, I’m putting a great deal of effort into this. Major categories here include tankers, galleons, whalers, pirate ships and liners. The pirate ships are in Somalia, the galleons on the Spanish main or Disneyland: which basically leaves you with liners and tankers, both of which are in plentiful supply in Cannes harbour or nearby. You’ll have to supply your own “god-daughters” or “nieces” though – all blonde and with deliciously long legs naturellement.

Unquestionably, the best kind of boat is one that someone else has paid for and has extensively insured against your bumping into other boats, lighthouses or rocks. It’s useful if the owner is also a Yacht Club member or Commodore of the Club, with unlimited credit facilities at the bar and restaurant. The boat must come with a large and competent crew who understand nautical charts, nautical knot tying and nautical vernacular such as “Aye, aye me hearties”. Any Captain Birds- Eye lookalikes should be closely questioned as to their true nautical abilities beyond frying up a dish of fish fingers.

Inevitably, some of your passengers will become decidedly queasy. You should then stop to snack on oysters and garlic butter snails to settle their stomachs. This will make some of them suicidal. If you’ve been fortunate enough to have borrowed Mr. Al-Rashid’s Lady Moura, have a deck hand push the button that sends the beach resort sliding out of the boat and have the more queasy of your guests lie on the beach chairs as they digest their slippery and greasy snacks amidst the vigorous, bracing swell of the ocean.

Heigh ho, a Designers life on the ocean wave,
and Jolly boating weather, And a hay harvest breeze,
Blade on the feather, Shade off the trees, Swing, swing together, With the blade between your knees.
(Or, in this case, your head between your knees.)

The moving finger writes…

Tempus fugit. Most of us prefer to think of our last breath as a far off event measurable in say the unit of time it takes to discover, refine, test, approve and market a major new pharmaceutical. But those that believe this tend to be constantly patrolling the perimeter of sanity. Time runs only in one direction, as the current Speaker of Britain’s Palace of Westminster is only too aware. He is the unfortunately named J. Bercow, whom many consider to represent at least three riders of the apocalypse: complacency, incompetence and sloth. Bercow is heavily into sport. Social climbing. Some consider him to be a mediocrity with halitosis and a council house mentality.

It is Bercow who is at the centre of the Dwarfgate scandal, following a joke made by the British Prime Minister David (call me ‘Dave’) Cameron. The nation’s dwarfs are up in arms, transfixed with fury. Cameron’s joke was made with reference to a comment made in The House by MP Simon Burns who called Mr. Speaker “a sanctimonious dwarf”. Burns then did what every politician does when using language not drawn from the sanitised official head office press handouts, and apologised.

My mole in Downing Street tells me that Cameron meanwhile told the following story at a private dinner party at Number 10. “Burns backed his car by mistake into Bercow’s in the underground car park at the Palace of Westminster. Bercow stepped out of his car, glared at Burns and said ‘I’m not happy’. To which Burns replied, ‘Well then, which one are you?’”

On the subject of which one are you, I’m reminded of my other half. No, not my wife, but my “true self”. What if your true self turns out to be a complete prat? I once encountered my true self and it was not a pretty sight. I was walking up the stairs in our house in Caracas as I was coming down. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Hi,’ I said, ‘I’m your true self’. ‘Yes, and you look like a complete prat.’ ‘That’s me,’ I replied ‘and I can be a really nasty piece of work’. Fortunately, I was carrying a blanket back from the beach, so I immediately threw it over my alter ego’s head and wrestled him to the ground. I then dragged him into the maid’s room and locked the door from the outside. For quite some time he pounded on the door yelling ‘let me out, let me out’. But I didn’t want to see my real self again. Nor do I want my chums to see my real self. The Masks are fine. I muddle along saying things like: ‘Paul I’m so pleased for you opening up a third studio in L.A.’ or, to one of our sons: ‘Gosh what a fabulous bonus of 70 quadzillions from the bank,’ or to a friend: ‘Wow, that’s what I call the best advance for a novel I’ve ever heard of’.

And when I’m in the queue at the supermarket there’s this doddery old woman fumbling for coins in her purse or using a credit card to pay for a carton of milk (why?) and my other self is in the maid’s room yelling ‘Let me out and I’ll stab her to death. Let me do it.’ But I smile charmingly and nod like one of those hideous dogs one sees on the ledge of the back of naff drivers’ cars. You know, the same ones that have foam dice hanging from the rear view mirror.

This maid I mentioned was Mexican and her speciality was making a true Mexican breakfast of re-fried black beans, hot chilli, onions and rice, topped with a fried egg and avocado mash. Quite a breakfast. The first time I was brave enough to eat a few spoonfuls, she had been particularly heavy handed with the chilli. After not even an hour, I felt the chilli and black beans in my stomach clamouring for the open air. Later, when I felt secure enough to leave the sanctuary of our home, I said good morning to Juan the porter (an escapee from a hostel for distressed bearded folk) and wished him good morning. “Thank you Sir,” he replied, “but I knew it would be a great day”. “Ah yes?” I replied. “Yes Sir. Had me a monstrous movement this morning. Nothing like that to set you up.”

I smiled weakly as there was nothing I could possibly say in response. But I suspect that our maid had given him a substantial sample of our breakfast before we arrived at the table.

Our infamous “back-biter” – who tells it like it is – shows just how cynical one man can be

I’ve sent an advance invitation to Mr Silvio Berlusconi to join us at the Chelsea Flower Show later this year. Mr B. is a great admirer of robust fragrant seedlings about to come to the first bloom of youth and flower. Indeed, it was with him in mind that I designed the Toff’s Garden for this year’s show. The garden should provide much inspiration for those with a keen interest in vigorous yet slender young flowers surrounded by healthy, well trimmed bushes.

As one passes through the entrance, there will be a beguiling sign saying “Trespassers will be horse-whipped” inscribed in hot poker work on a sustainable tree trunk. This may set Mr B.’s imagination running. Then a row of top hats will be used as hanging baskets, – alternative grey and black of course to maintain the “Toff” style. Alongside that, patent leather thigh-length cavalrymen’s riding boots (Lobbs of St James’s) will make amusing plant containers and give inspiration for fantasy. There will be other cavalry boots – not patent leather but shiny latex, strategically placed around the garden with strawberry plants hanging out of them in another tribute to young fresh, soft fruit, ripening in the sun and almost ready to be picked and consumed.

At the far end of the garden, you will see six pairs of Lobb shoes which I hardly ever wore, with tomato seedlings and the small budding, fragrant cherry tomato – cerisa intacta pro tempus – to give this select and rare variety its proper horticultural name. The Lobb shoes are surrounded by a rockery constructed of elegant stones which have been in my family for generations.

All the bedding plants have been privately educated. They are therefore much hardier, having been through a regime of cold showers and lots of Latin and Greek. The male bedding plants are well versed in Aristotle and Oscar Wildes’ proclivities. The female plants equally so in Cervantes lesser known play “El Punto G”. On the left side of the garden you’ll notice that the conventional rectangle has been broken up laying down Aston Martin and Bentley tyre tracks, giving the impression of a careless chauffeur reversing his employee’s mistress hastily away across the lawn at the unexpected return of Madam.

Mr. B should like this creative touch. One doesn’t actually have to own a Bentley or an Aston to achieve this. Most decent garden centres stock the Trackmasta®, a neat device for printing your choice of posh car tracks on any lawn.

Water features in gardens are so yesterday. Here you will find a Pimms feature, trickling over ice cubes into silver goblets. Arranged elegantly around this are comfortable garden benches ideal for indiscretions with a favourite niece or god daughter or for negotiating the cost of buying a peerage. We have christened this “El Rincon Silvio” after a cousin of my wife. Talking of which, slugs are always a problem.

The only way of dealing with them is to make them feel socially inferior and ill at ease. Stick a few copies of The Tatler around your most vulnerable seedlings and most slugs will slink away in shame. Any remaining will shrivel up with a sense of great inferiority.

The crowning glory at the centre of the garden is a magnificent display of a new cross breed of tulip Hughius Heffnerun ut Bruce Forsythium. Scientists at MIT have produced the DNA of this new breed which is displayed in a back light panel by the tulips. Apparently it is predominantly a curious mix of corset, wig and dentures. We look forward to welcoming you all to my Toff’s Garden at the Chelsea Flower Show.

Our infamous “back-biter” shows just how cynical one man can be

There were several options given to me as possible topics for this issue. Amongst them “beds”. Judging from his biography, one would have thought Warren Beatty better qualified to cover this topic. Here goes. Expect a little wandering.

Hotel beds. Have you ever checked into a 5-star hotel? The pubescent bell hop had a major zit squeezing fest that morning leaving his face like a slab of corned beef. He explains how the light switch works in optimistic expectations of a $10 tip. And you tentatively look at the bed. Are you up to date with your shots? Do you wonder what unspeakable acts of depravity previous occupants have done on or in this bed which you will be climbing into this very evening? Low life with low morals and tragic shortcomings in personal hygiene grinning maniacally at their voluptueuse partner who is undiluted essence of fox.
I feel an extravagant generalization coming on. I can’t help myself, Your Honour. The French. (Nice link with previous para? You bet) The French drive French cars, Renaults, Peugeots, drink French wine, holiday in French-speaking places. A sizeable proportion sleep in French camp beds. Pun intended, Justin dear. The French eat horses. Which is why many horses sleep standing up – their legs have a locking mechanism to prevent them falling over. Why do they sleep standing up? To get off to a flying start when a Frenchman approaches with a carving knife. If it’s not horses, almost any domestic pet will do. I saw a bumper sticker in Paris which translated as: “So many cats, so few recipes”.

On the subject of food, try Mollard, 29, rue de Londres, Paris. Opposite Gare St. Lazare. It’s been there for more than 100 years. Enthusiastic friends booked us a table there recently. We were ushered to a table jammed against a buttress wall with another table jammed against ours. One table had to be removed for us to get to our pocket-sized table. The Maitre d’ crawled over like a haemorrhoidal gorilla attempting to postpone a bowel movement because he knew the pain would be intense. He glared at us, attempting to transmogrify his ill-contained bad feelings; this was as much of a strain for me as for him.
“What’s today’s special, please?” I asked smilingly. “Hake”. Glancing at Madam for her approval, I said, “Thank you, two hakes”. “Hake’s off;” “Crab perhaps?” I asked. “OK. Two crab.” “Is it dressed?” I asked. “No. You do it yourself.” Meanwhile, the next table had two plates of steaming cabbage dropped over their shoulders. It appeared to have been boiled into submission. Must have had a rosbif in the kitchen? When we got served (no offer of water, wine, bread, entrée) Madam got lotte and I got cod. Remember the address and avoid it. Fame is a capricious mistress.

Most restaurants and bars present wine lists and cocktails with the cheapest options first. This is bad marketing. It means that many customers go for the house wine rather than the far more profitable – for the restaurant – Château Très Chère. Wine lists make fascinating bedtime reading. Especially if you are in the Middle East where, incidentally, they have the best inflatable mattresses which blow themselves up.

Prize-winner for this year’s “Best Use of Champagne Award” goes to the charming Olga Berluti. The fragrant Mme Berluti is the creative director of the mega luxury shoe brand of the same name. She recently made a trip to London because it was felt that the City bankers and hedge fund managers had become so preoccupied with le crédit crunch and their to-be-highly taxed bonuses that they were neglecting their footwear. Mme Berluti held a shoe-shining demonstration at their Mayfair branch. The key to shiny shoes? Champagne of course. Madame Berluti likes to use Krug or Dom Pèrignon (don’t we all?) for that added toecap sparkle. However, these brands were deemed too ostentatious in straightened times. Instead a modest Moët et Chandon was called into action.

Spring is around the corner. Think about bedding some plants.

Our green-skinned sage (he uses a green sunlamp) offers his usual sceptical take on “going green”

Now look here, pay attention at the back, this is directed at YOU. I said, pay attention or I’ll come and whack a ruler over your knuckles. We’ve all had to tighten our Hermès belts; even the Prince of Wailes has done so. Well, to a teeny marginal degree. Our mole in Clarence House squeaks that HRH will not be ordering his usual dozen cashmere tea cosies topped with the fashionable Prince of Wailes Pom-Poms for Mummy’s Christmas box. Furthermore, he – or more probably one of his agents – has sold on exclusive rights to sell his personal “Green, organic” Duchy Original biscuits, along with exclusive rights to HRH’s organic snacks, to Waitrose, a reasonably upmarket supermarket chain. Wailes has always been passionately green of course. He even talks to his plants. Don’t ask.

Being “Green” does not involve interminable recitations of Ezra Pounds’ boring piffle over the cheeseboard or a choreographed interpretation of Beckett by leotard-clad male luvvies with shaven heads.
2009 has been a toughie for aristos and farmers on the organic green front. Farmers, breaking their backs, hand-weeding their crops and carrying crates of produce to farmer’s markets have seen the rot set in on organic stuff as soon as the credit crunch began. Even well-heeled customers across Europe fled the organic isles for the discount aisles. Falling sales means falling prices. Organic lamb is now (outside of Switzerland, that is) so dirt cheap at the farm gate that the cost of moving sheep to organically certified slaughterhouses can simply not be justified.

But nil desperandum. The EU is here to bail everyone out. They have a giant conservation quango paying farmers (in the UK for example) £650 per hectare to convert to organic. Nice one? You bet. For many European farmers it’s the subsidies that count. Not much else. Baaah.
Back to HRH Wailes and his subsidies. I doubt that he played any hand in the extraordinary run up to Copenhagen’s summit in December, which is intended to supply the successor treaty to the Kyoto Protocol, according mandatory CO2 emission targets to all nations of the world. The realistic chances of a new deal are as dead in the water as an albatross caught in an oil slick. I’ll bet you a bag of doughnuts or Duchy Originals that no treaty will be agreed. Want a bet? E-mail me at flyingdonuts@does-the-name-pavlov-ring-a-bell.com.

Saudi Arabia argues that a cutback in fossil fuels is “economic discrimination.” Oh yes? Here we have an arid desert nation rich enough to keep its people supplied with irrigation: this makes the point that it is not climate change that condemns so many Africans to early death but poverty. Poorer nations understand this only too well.
I remain unconvinced that radical action is required. The unelected British Prime Minister claims he has 50 days to “save the world.” It’s taken him 12 years to make a significant contribution to destroying both Britain and her banking system. I sometimes suspect that we are being held hostage by the suppurating Middle East kleptocrats – which puts me near the greens, I suppose.

But hope is on the horizon in the form of – are you sitting down? – shale gas. No, I’m not kidding. In a nutshell, it was technically possible but uneconomic – UNTIL new extraction technology changed everything. The price of shale gas has tumbled by two thirds to about US$ 4.50 per million thermal units. Amazing. Gloomy predictions about the end of energy resources and the end of the world are being rewritten. Our brothers in the Middle East, Venezuela and Nigeria might need to rethink their policies on petroleum pricing.

The often deranged poet Shelley, chum of mad Byron and Keats, who sometimes wore feathers in his hair, wrote that love withers under restraint. Its very essence is liberty. It’s neither compatible with obedience, jealousy or fear. Bravo Shelly. Same goes for the green movement in several respects.

Hoc anno ego pro certo benignius aliis me geram.

Dear Readers, Please ignore the last line. I’ve tried to stop him from showing off – but he won’t listen! He claims he’s making New Year’s resolutions to be nicer to people. Not before time, I should think.—Ed.