There are no poseurs in martial-arts competitions. There is also no room for spoiled little rich boys or girls. I know a few rich men who practice martial arts, but all they’re doing is fooling themselves. Unless one competes, one is not a martial artist. Punto e basta, as they say in the land of pasta. Taking private lessons does not begin to tell the real story. One has to lay it on the line. The irony is that nasty, violent thugs are too cowardly to fight on an equal level. They simply haven’t got the bottle, unless drunk, or five against one, and with a shiv in their hand to boot. Hence the peaceful demeanor of most tough-guy judokas or karatekas.

The other thing I noticed was that the oligarchs are not the only pigs around. Athletes from the old Soviet Union stick out by their dour looks and absolute lack of any charm or good manners. Most of them grunt in place of speech. They remind me of Lord Sugar and Philip Green, but slightly better-looking. Lady Bracknell would be appalled. The Poles are far different. They smile and are polite and are the best people of Europe, according to the great anthropologist Taki.

I don’t always keep my promises, but I had promised our readers a medal and I got one. It was only a bronze, which makes me the world’s third-toughest 74-year-old. I’m not one for excuses, but I fought the best I ever have, losing only in overtime and by decision. My coach Teimoc won gold and told me that he was never more proud to see me fight than the way I did in Frankfurt. Alas, as it was my last fight ever, I blubbed a bit on the podium, but no one saw it.