High life
Ageing gracefully
Taki
The good thing about these courses is that one gets to practise against unknowns, and to be taught by various teachers. In karate everyone quickly learns each other's strengths and weaknesses, thus one is able to parry attacks and avoid serious injuries when training with people one knows. Not so in a place like Crystal Palace, where hungry youths look to gain confidence by laying out burnt-out cases like the poor little Greek boy. Although I was bloodied every day, and sustained a serious leg injury, it was not from lack of practice or technique. I was simply too slow in evading attacks.
Ironically, offensive techniques are thft last ones to go, which means that in futu: I should punch first and ask questions later. What I find the hardest thing to accept about age, however, is that there is nothing to look forward to when training. As I failed to make the national team, from now on I will simply train hoping for that breakthrough that all Japanese instructors assure us is ours for the having if we stick to it. It's called Kenkojuku, or humbleness through strength, a theory that has one getting very strong once the self is put aside. Personally, I've got my doubts that I can reach such an exalted state of selfless- ness, but I will nevertheless try. And looking at the Japanese senseis gives me the strength. They seem to get younger and stronger every year. I think natural talent has a lot to do with an athlete ageing gracefully. And speaking of natural talent, my NBF (new best friend) Imran Khan invited me to a great party after his team's victory of the NatWest trophy at Lord's ten days ago. I'll never forget about a year ago, when I asked a friend to bowl me as easy a ball as he could while I tried to bat. I found it impossible to make contact. And yet I've played polo, tennis, squash, and consider myself a better than average natural sports- man. I guess batting is the hardest thing in the world, and Imran agrees with me.
Yet when I watched him he made it look effortless. Incidentally, Imran plans to play two or three more years and then go into politics in Pakistan. I find that a good thing, as I trust Benazir Bhutto as much as I do that egregious midget Tutu, the publicity hound who reminds me of Italian playboys of the Sixties, full of gold hanging from his neck, and wearing outrageous outfits. Usually I find athletes terrific bores, like movie actors and lawyers, but Imran is the exception. He's also an Oxford graduate, something most of his guests were not. The first person I spotted was Charles Benson, who had already emptied a bottle of bubbly and was work- ing on his second. Oliver Gilmour was having an argument over the Falklands (he is against Mrs Thatcher having sent a force to recapture them) with various Thatcher- ites, most of whom kept pointing at a painting on the wall that featured some grapes. Imran's friend the beautiful por- trait painter Emma Sargent was serving champagne non-stop, and although I once again sound like Jennifer, I found nothing that night that I could poke fun at, except of course Oliver's arguments.
After Imran's blast, there were a couple of fun nights at Annabel's, and then there was time to fly to Mykonos in order to get ready for two great parties coming up in late September, both of which I hope to report to you unless I get Aids from the mosquitoes of that gay paradise.
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