Mind you, the only way to get rid of one's sea legsis to continue partying, as in the John Sutin party for animal welfare and his birthday, not necessarily in that order. If Faust was willing to sell his soul to Satan for knowledge (as well as Gretchen) I am more than happy to make a pact with the Devil to purchase the Sutin chalets, as long as I don't have to pay for them. Yes, there are two of them, separated by a wide green field long enough for Englishmen to play cricket on but not - in this case - to commit unnatural acts. For any of you GstaadLife readers not familiar with Englishmen, their idea of being forced to commit an unnatural act is to pay the bill. Which they did not have to do on John Sutin's birthday because he is by far the most generous man in Gstaad, so generous in fact, English people are thinking of making him King of England once the old Queen meets her maker. (Charles is stingy and is always asking for money for his charities from nouveau riche Americans, Arabs and now Russkies.)

There is something very beautiful about a midday summer party on a brilliant sunny day near the woods high above Saanen. Upon arrival and champagne, I looked around and was shocked, shocked like Captain Renault in Casablanca, not to find any lunch-bucket pilferers, assorted body snatchers, smiling wallet-lifters and bald-faced phonies (the usual Riviera crowd) among the invited. What is going on here, I asked myself. Why are there only nice people invited? This could be the end of Gstaad. Just kidding. Kirsten Sutin's dogs, all twelve of them, were perfectly behaved, as were such Gstaad stalwarts as Marcel Boris Bach (Marcel dedicated his conquest of Everest last year to Boris Yeltsin, the man who opened the way for the oligarchs to buy Switzerland), El Aurence Bach (the El helps with his Arab clients), Antoine Spillman, the Radziwills, Peter and Brigitta Notz, Marie France Buhl, countless Cameranas, and others much too chic to mention in a village newspaper. In the middle of it all stood the birthday boy himself, while his private Pilatus screeched over the Saanen valley in salute to 54 years of generosity.

Unfortunately the food and wine were so good I made a glutton of myself, a meringue-utan in reality, and have been climbing the Wasserngrat ever since trying to lose the extra pound. What a nice place Gstaad is off-season. For one brief moment on my way up to the Eagle I imagined it to be 1958, when Gstaad was still a beautiful but intimate place full of friends and acquaintances. It seems so long ago. There were no personal assistants back then, no personal publicists and certainly no personal bodyguards. (I wonder what impersonal bodyguards are like.) We were of different nationalities but felt and acted Swiss while in Gstaad. Because as everyone knows, the more diverse the neighbourhood, the less trust between neighbours. This is why St Moritz has changed as much as it has, and for the very worse. Each group lives in their own insulated communities, with the minimum need to build relationships with other groups.

Just look at what happened to countries which allowed diversity to get the better of them. The most diverse countries of Europe, Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union, shattered into 22 nations as soon as they became free. Slovaks and Czechs are divorced, Cyprus is cut in half, and Belgium is reeling. Britain is more diverse than in the time of Queen Victoria and the empire, and London is called Londonistan. Madrassas defend the London bombers and race riots are common in the industrial north. Has Germany been strengthened by the millions of Turks? Is France a stronger nation for its 8 million Muslims? But on the other hand, how have the Japanese suffered from their lack of diversity? Or the Chinese, for that matter.

Yes, I know, Gstaad is not a country, but the same principle applies. If it becomes a Mecca only for the super rich, the writing will be on the wall. At its most basic, racial consciousness has as its goal the preservation of a certain people. An instinctive preference for their own people and culture. This is what drew most of us to Gstaad long ago. Not its glitz, nor its glamour. It was its gemutlichness, something I find missing nowadays.

I know, I know, the twilight feel of Aschenbach slumped in his beachchair during a plague is not exactly Gstaad at present, but I have many redeeming vices. One of them is that I do take the long view. As a very wise man once said, “when you pay for the priceless you are getting it cheap.” This applies to Gstaad. It was always expensive but we were getting it cheap. The new money is getting it for nothing and doesn't even know what it's getting. Let's stick to what and whom we know and keep those looking for Riviera-like glamour out.

Taki Theodoracopulos, better known as Taki, is a journalist and writer, living in Gstaad, London, and New York. His column ‘High Life’ has appeared in The Spectator for the past 25 years, and he has also written for National Review, the London Sunday Times, Esquire, Vanity Fair, the New York Press, and Quest Magazine, among others. In 2002 Taki founded The American Conservative magazine with Pat Buchanan and Scott McConnell. He is also publisher of the British magazine Right Now! and has been writing for GstaadLife since its first season in 2003/4. More of his musings can be found here.