High life
Over the hill
Taki
T hate to admit it but the only good thing I about grey hair is that it makes it hard to see the dandruff. Believe me, if anyone tries to tell you that it isn't so, don't trust him. Or her. They're either con-men trying to flatter, or con-women looking for a sugar daddy. I've had ample opportunity to look into my widening pool of narcissism during this past week, and have come to the reluc- tant conclusion that grey hair is to man what arthritic hands are to a concert pianist. The reason for the look-see into the pool has been the sudden appearance of that foul-smelling bugaboo of all athletes, Old Age, tapping me on the shoulder. The symptoms of his tapping are shortness of breath, lack of courage, knees that refuse to bend right down and stay down, a brittle back, and eyes that play tricks with distances, and blur when at speed-In other words I've been skiing with younger men and coming out second best. Or fourth, rather. Arki, Denny and Jean are all 19 years old, and son, nephew and son, respec- tively, of three great friends of mine. While my friends are worried about socialism, clogged arteries, and whether karmic rein- carnation really exists, I've chosen to ski with their children. The only drawback has been having to face the ageing process.
While I'm at it, I might as well clear up a small matter concerning Arki Busson, of Farrah Fawcett-Majors fame. When I last wrote about the torrid romance between the two, I said erroneously that Arki had seduced la Farrah by posing as an Italian
When did you start to hear these voices?' prince. Now I learn that nothing could have been further from the truth. Although I should have known better, in view of the fact that Arki's ego is on a par with that of Muhammad Ali's — or mine, for that mat- ter — I was misled by press reports. We all got it wrong, as usual, because his mother, upon seeing a picture of him with FFM, thought it better to say nothing, in order to avoid further publicity. Well, with friends like me, she didn't exactly succeed. It is not only Farrah who knows Arki's real name, so does the thug-like Ryan O'Neal, her con- stant companion. In fact, Ryan was so enraged by Farrah's flirtation with Arki that he warned the French teenager to lay off her or else. 'Okay, grandpa,' was the ir- reverent Arki's reply. He then went about chasing her with renewed vigour.
Arki learned to ski before he could walk, as did Denny and Jean. And it shows. Throughout last week we've been practising what can only be described as an alpine ver- sion of football-fan thuggery. We wait near a T-bar and pick out a victim on his way up. Then we race straight for him, break sud- denly when five yards away, and cover him with flying snow from our wake. Infantile, you say? Definitely. Amusing? Absolutely — especially when some of the victims are the types who take themselves seriously. Needless to say, the serious types pick me out and forget the real culprits. My part is to ski behind the three holding a tray with a cup and saucer on it and just before they break to yell, 'Monsieur Busson, votre cafe est servi.' When a member of the Eagle Club reminded me that they were kids and it didn't really matter, but that I was middle-aged and it did, I immediately ordered them to get him. I can still hear him swearing.
The juvenile behaviour helps me forget how slow and sloppy my skiing is. To ski well one must be precise and courageous. One must keep to the fall line and edge the skis slightly. I used to be able to do that, but no longer. And at the end of the day, when the rest of the group take the moun- tain straight, I chicken out and use wide turns. It's discouraging and depressing. Why does age encourage cowardice and not bravery? Like Oscar Wilde didn't exactly say, what a pity wisdom is wasted on the old. And speaking of pity, I'm sorry as hell that my old friend Jeffrey Bernard is feeling low. But, unlike some people I know who complain about their skiing, Jeffrey has real guts and will bounce back. Although he wrote his obituary ten years ago, I am con- vinced he will write mine one day. What a heroic scenario it would be if I were killed skiing and holding a tray. Jesus .. .
But enough about death, infirmity and old age. Next week I go to London and on to Athens for a karate tournament. And as I write, watching the sunset turn the haun- ting and majestic mountain tops pink, I am about to take a monumental decision. After this year I am giving up sport for good and devoting my life to higher learning and the contemplation of the human condition. I am going to become an intellectual.
Previous page
