High life | 24 September 2015

Gstaad

Jeremy Clarke has wiped me out again, for a change. His accounts of the high jinks on board the Spectator

At the age of 79, I’m seriously contemplating becoming a bird-watcher

cruise had the mother of my children laughing out loud, something she’s not known for among those of us who consider laughing loudly a staggering breach of taste. Never mind, Jeremy’s talents and his ability to describe the indescribable in vivid prose is a badly kept secret among those of us who love good writing. The only thing wrong with Jeremy is that he shows me up week in, week out. Being the fall guy does not suit me one bit. And I hope I won’t be falling this week in Amsterdam, where I’m competing in the world veteran judo championships. This is my last competition ever. I’ve said this before, but this time I mean it, just like the girl who said no to her first-kiss opportunity. I’m quitting because of the training. It’s getting much too hard. Last week I was in bed with flu for four days, then my coach Brian arrived from New York and we went straight into it. Brian is 28, a student of the greatest judoka that ever lived, Yamashita Sensei, and fighting him is analogous to being dynamited by a sushi dish. He looks polite, friendly and smiling — until he throws you. You land rather hard. Judo requires great lung capacity. I’m a smoker and that’s what handicaps me during a tournament. I’m always out of breath, huffing and puffing against men who are mostly slower and weaker. But they tend to cling, hold and somehow make my life miserable between fags and other exotic substances. It’s not a life, really, and I’m seriously contemplating becoming a bird-watcher at the age of 79.