High life
Fighting fit
Taki
was on my way to Somerset last week, and Princess Nicholas von Preussen's dance, but I changed my mind at the last minute and remained glued to my typewri- ter (a total waste of time,! might add). No, I didn't chicken out a la Rambo Stallone, but as I plan to be in London for the months of June and July, it simply didn't make sense to fly over for a party. After all, only desperate social climbers like Sebastian Taylor and Louis Basualdo do such things. . Well, there was another reason I chose to stay put. On 29 May I am to fight a friend of mine, in a charity match in Madison Square Garden. My friend's name is Roffredo Gaetani d'Aragona Lovatelli, and he's one of the rare Italian princes that are for real. The trouble with Roffredo is not his centuries-old title, but his record. He has had 42 pro fights, winning most of them, and he outweighs me by about ten pounds. He is also much taller, and 17 years younger. When the organisers had the smart idea to throw me in with him I thought it was a joke. (Amateurs are not allowed to fight pros, even in charity matches, and as I am not registered with either group, they thought it a good idea for an Italian to beat up on a Greek.) No longer. Roffredo and I have been sparring six to seven three-minute rounds five times a week, and although he's taking it easy on me for the moment, he plans to open up soon.
To tell you the truth, I'm looking for- ward to the fight. This is the last year that I'll be in my forties, so I've decided to give it one last try all round. After the fight on the 29th, I go to London for my libel cases, and then on to Greece for a non-stop karate competition. The way I figure it, if I don't get knocked out, it's a victory, and if I do, it's better than chickening out a la the Aga Khan in the 1962 world championship downhill.
But back to Roffredo. Although we've known each other for some time, he has become my NBF since I found out that his politics are to the right of mine, and that he puts his money where his mouth is. He's been jailed twice for resisting the Gestapo- like tactics of Italian anarchists and pink- oes. His brothers are just as tough. Sadly, his youngest, one of the best-looking boys I've ever seen, and I'm not into boys as yet, died in Brazil six years ago. Christoforo was only 21 when the accident happened, while free-falling next to his brother, play- ing some kind of chicken-opens-his- parachute-first game. But thank God there are still three boys left, which says a lot for the Catholic Church.
During Roffredo's first professional fight, he spotted his mother crying some- where in the first row. He was getting a hell of a beating at the time. So, typically Italian where mothers are concerned, he turned round and knocked out his oppo- nent. I just couldn't bear to see my mother suffer, was what he told his manager later. I now spend my days running with Roffre- do and Chuck, sparring every afternoon, and trying to eat healthy foods and stay off the booze. The trouble is, the harder I train, the less I feel like writing, and the more I feel like going out and having a good time. Roffredo says that if I'm in good enough shape to go all out for three rounds, no matter what happens I will not allow myself the privilege once I'm in London. I miss Annabel's, and Aspinall's, but New York is healthier for me. There are fewer leeches over here, probably because everyone is so busy climbing. And the disco scene is so bad, it makes a stay-at-home even out of a nightbird like me. Still, I can't wait for June.
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