Health warning

Spectator, The, Sep 14, 1996 by Taki

Glorious weather has finally hit the Alps, and I'm out bright and early each morning getting healthier by the minute. After a lightning trip to London, I need to get healthy as much as poor Bob Dole needs a boost in the polls. In fact, I have finally come to the boring conclusion that London will one day, night rather, be the end of me.

Take, for example, last week. On Thursday, chez Aleko and Marietta Goulandris here in Gstaad, I overdid things because of the fun company and terrific wines. Early Friday I drove to a small airport nearby in order to fly to London. The tiny plane that was taking me arrived on time but damaged one of its wheels while landing. So off was the sailor to another small airport to make the connection to Amsterdam and from there on to City Airport down by the docks. Hanging around airports is not salubrious because one gets bored rather easily, and, as everyone who drinks knows, the only thing that relieves boredom is demon drink.

And speaking of booze, my guest of honour on Friday evening drank only water, leaving Charlie Glass and yours truly to demolish three bottles of white Sancerre and five of Haut Brion between us. After my guests left, I moved on to the hard stuff until about 7 a.m. Saturday was a bit hazy, until a driver picked up Kate Reardon and myself for a quick nip up to Marlborough and a terrific blast thrown by Robert Sangster for his wife's birthday. Mr S. is a most generous host, but he loves publicity as much as the Draft Dodger loves the truth. He has asked me not to write anything, but what the hell. I had so much fun dancing until dawn, it's a pity not to brag about it.

Sunday was almost gone by the time I got back to the big city and to the realisation that I had invited some friends for dinner. Oy veh! Somehow I made it through and even managed to watch the finals of the US Open and the Spartan victory of Pete Sampras. The match ended at 2 a.m. and five hours later I was back on a small plane flying to Belp where my trusty Porsche was waiting for the last leg to Gstaad. See what I mean about London being the end of me?

Now everything is back to normal except for my liver. The international veterans championships in Lenk begin as I write, followed by those in Beaulieu, on the Riviera. In between, I've once again started to go to the dojo, which means karate classes. There is a tough school nearby in Saanen, and I've been taking my licks like the old man I now am. Karate is like ballet. There are stars and there are stars, but one does not stay a star unless one trains in class. Kicking and punching the bag alone is gratifying, but is of no help in the street. Reflexes are what the art of empty hand fighting is all about. And the only way one keeps up one's reflexes is by facing an opponent in class and going through the routine. One punches or kicks, the other blocks and counter attacks. Then you do it all over again and again and again until it becomes second nature. What the bar is to a ballerina, blocking is to a karateka.

Mind you, the trouble with competition in tennis and karate is that one goes for the relaxation with a vengeance following the exertions, i.e., one reaches for the booze. Some people are known to be able to stop after a while. Others are known for not being able to. Alas, I belong to the latter group. Still, boozing it up in Gstaad after a tough tennis match is 1,000 times better than living in Los Angeles, which is tantamount to being in therapy. The poor little Greek boy's therapy is sport, women and booze, not necessarily in that order. And there's no place like the Alps for feeling better the morning after the night before.