High life
Karate chopped
Taki
omething amazing happened on my way from the Big Olive to the Big Bagel. Actually it took place during the stupover in London. I ran into what I thought was the first nice person ever to travel on Concorde, but of course she turned out to be a phony. By this I mean she was a ground hostess, not a passenger, but so struck was I by her kind manner and sweetness, it took me a few seconds to get beyond her face to the uniform.
At first, while I was desperately thinking of an opening line, she insisted on helping me with my suitcases, and then went out of her way to make my check-in as smooth as possible. Her name is Terry Keeley, and she's a Spectator reader to boot. But just when I was beginning to think that I had finally struck gold in Terminal. Four, she
repeated the process with the next mug. Oh well, that's democracy for you, a biological contradiction if there ever was one.
What is not a contradiction is how good BA's service has got since the airline went private. Gone are the days when food trays were shoved rather than served and gaY stewards would canoodle up front ignoring the cries of help from mothers and paraple- gics, as well as from old ladies being sat upon by lager louts. And the new gentility is not for the fat cats only. On the leg from Athens to London I walked back to the tourist section and sat among the plebs. The British karate team was on board and thought I'd do a bit of brown-nosing. Well. all I can tell you is that the service downstairs was as good as it was upstairs, and it included those incapable of chopping a taxi in half. In fact, as we were about to land, the stewardess congratulated Ronnie Christopher on winning the European ka- rate championship in Athens the day be- fore, and for once, a crowd not destined for Miami Beach cheered lustily. And speaking of cheering, it was tough to watch others compete while I sat like a fat official hors de combat with the women and children. Having spent nearly 20 years representing the Olive Republic in karate, I sat out the championships when they were finally awarded to the Big Olive. Mind you, others far far greater than the poor little Greek were also out to pasture. namely the one and only Terry O'Neill• who in my opinion is the greatest karateka ever to have competed, as well as Bob Poynton and Billy Higgins, not to mention a Kraut or two. In karate, a supportive crowd can make a lot of difference, espe- cially where hot-blooded Greeks are con- cerned. Our team, however, was made up of intellectuals, and as everyone who has ever heard of Salman Rushdie knows. those types never come through. Our first opponents were the Swedes. tall, blond and as tough as the Dutch army's stand against the Panzer onslaught in 1940. We wiped the floor with them, but then lost to an even funnier race of people. the Belgians. The German team — who incidentally looked as if picked by central casting for a war film in which the Germans are the good guys — won the team event against England in an extremely close match. England won the individual, and I ended up handing out the prizes. It was a sorry end to a rather undistinguished career, although I did get to shake hands with and kiss a young German girl who won a medal in the kata competitor'. Which made 30 years of training worth- while, although the perfection of technique and restraint still elude me.
And I shall need both those qualities to survive next week. I'm off to Palm Beach with the mother of my children and our offspring. If that doesn't kill me, nothing will.
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