High life
Too far gone
Taki
Athens In a nutshell, Byron said it all, and his words ring truer today than ever: 'For what is left the poet here?/For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear.' Except that 1 refuse to blush or shed any tears. I'm beyond it. I've given up. Headline-grabbing a la Mercouri and Papandreou is called statemanship over here, and the yellowest press in the third world confirms their buf- foonery by printing every detail of their ludicrous posturing. But perhaps I am be- ing unfair. Papandreou has another talent. He has managed to divide and polarise the Greeks as they haven't been divided since the civil war. Never have I seen such hatred among a people that share the same language, colour and religion. Everywhere one goes there is tension, smouldering political tension, and the ugliest city in Europe becomes uglier as each day passes and more political slogans cover its grimY walls.
Needless to say, most of the vitriol comes from the Left, and the paint that is splashed all over town is red, courtesy of the Greek Communist Party. George Athanasiadis, the publisher who was murdered two weeks ago, was a moderate and a friend of my father's. Like all extreme socialists, Papan- dreou hates the moderates most. A moderate conservative like the murdered man represented a danger to Andreas and his clique of thugs. So they called him every name in the book, accused him of every crime, and probably some nut seething with socialist fervour went in and bumped him off.
I don't know why I'm boring you with all this. Unlike the slaughter that is going on in Rhodesia against whites, England is not responsible for the Greek mess. Well, not directly. She did help in 1821 and again in 1944. This time, however, I'm afraid it's too late. The only thing you can do now is keep the Marbles where they belong, and tell the Greek Minister of Culture (culture?)
That she's welcome in England only if she reverts to her most natural role, that of the heroine in Never on a Sunday the Arabs in
the Dorchester like fake blondes). C'est tout.
The reason for my coming here was, as usual, karate. The Greek National Cham- Pionships in karate have been known to end LIP as free-for-ails, a fact that is ironic in view of the karate code and Greece being the birthplace of the Olympic spirit. But the modern Greeks are as far removed from the Bushido code as they are from the Olympic ethos. This year I decided that no Greek referee would cheat my boys, who are among the best, not only in Greece, but also in Europe, so I invited Sensei Enoeda, the highest ranked Japanese teacher in Europe, and an ex-All Japan champion, to be referee. Not surprisingly, this son of a samurai family managed to control more than 2,000 screaming Greeks. His bearing is so military, so much like an old Japanese warrior, that even the Greeks did not feel safe in numbers. When he demanded Silence with a stare he got it — totally. And When Greek judges tried to cheat he reserv- ed their decisions and they thanked him humbly for pointing out their error. Greeks do not accept defeat graciously and my team and I were roundly booed for winning every event and sweeping the boards. Every medal went to our club ex- cept for a second place in the free fighting.
Although a past winner and two times finalist I was made to qualify (they said that I was too old, and for once they were right). I won a gold in the team fighting and got to the last eight in the individual. My oppo-
nent outweighed me by 80 lbs but when I entered the ring and people began to boo
me, I lost my head and charged into him like a blind man, Mr Enoeda told me after-
wards that I fought like Ney in Waterloo. But I had already decided that this would be my last tournament and I wasn't going to have the big man chase me. Not in front of the Greeks. And a swollen jaw is a small Price to pay. miss my teammates and the things we've been through together. What I won't miss is the olive republic of modern Greece.
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