If cheating is the cancer of sport, losing has to be its halitosis. I stunk up the joint in Amsterdam last week, and even managed to be thrown (a first) for my troubles. Winners, for some strange reason, never have an excuse. Losers tend to. Mine is that my opponent was born after the war, whereas I was in an age group that was born before it. The rules are that one fights opponents within five years of one’s birthday, either ...

Gstaad—Jeremy Clarke has wiped me out again, for a change. His accounts of the high jinks on board the Spectator 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 abilities to describe indescribable situations in prose that makes the reader feel on hand is a badly kept secret ...

Gstaad—it was the summer of 1953, in Greece. We spent two months together, had a platonic love affair, and then she got married and died soon after. She was older than me, but not by much, and I had turned sixteen that summer. Her name was Maria Agapitou, and she was a rare beauty, at least in my inexperienced eyes. An inner voice tells me to beware of nostalgia—after all, I last saw her 62 years ago—but at my age the ...

Without the benefit of hindsight I write this on Monday, the 7th—Serena Williams, according to some commentators the greatest woman who has ever graced this earth of ours, will be completing the calendar-year Grand Slam of tennis by winning the United States Open. Even to my trained eye, she looks pretty much unbeatable, although tennis is a game in which one’s mind can play tricks galore. The reason I prefer martial sports ...

On board the M/SQueen Victoria: They remain engraved in my brain, like something out of a Greek tragedy, so beautiful, such legends, and then they were gone. I am referring, of course, to those ocean liners of a bygone era, those romantic boats that dreams were made of, a fantasy world of Aubusson carpets and Lalique lamps gone to sea. As an impressionable young boy crossing the ocean with my parents, there were no finer rooms ...

September means football, in high school, in prep school, and, of course, where it all began, in college. There is nothing that evokes F. Scott Fitzgerald times more than a crisp autumn Saturday afternoon, a marching band, a campus full of beautiful coeds, and stands full of rowdy Joe Colleges rooting for their alma mater. And then, of course, there are also Sunday afternoons, when the big boys take over. I used to love pro ...

According to W. Somerset Maugham, materially one must live on the razor’s edge between poverty and minimal subsistence in order to cultivate the life of the spirit. I’ve always respected Maugham’s wisdom and understanding of human nature, and Larry Darrell, in search of a Tao, is among my favorite fictional characters. Maugham wrote The Razor’s Edge in 1944, at age 70, an extraordinary achievement and way ahead of ...

These are the languid, sensuous days of summer, and I’ve had another birthday, which is the bad news. But it’s the silly season, so I’m going to be silly yet again and tell you about a couple who got into trouble last week in the land of cheese: Patrick and Isabelle Balkany. I do not know them but had the bad luck to run into the wife around 20 years ago in Rolle, Switzerland, where the Rosey school is located. It was the ...

The wind is maddening and constant, and gets stronger as the sun falls under the horizon. The streets are lined with plastic and rubbish, the beaches covered with greasy bodies and sun beds, and ghastly music blasts away all day and night. Motor scooters without mufflers and cars choke the tiny roads leading to the center of town, where literally thousands of sunburned young people wearing expensive rags down tequilas with a ...

I met Donald Trump during the late "€™90s, at a grand party thrown by Lord Black for his wife's 60th birthday. It was in New York, Conrad Black was at the height of his power as a press lord, and his wife Barbara ditto, writing beautiful conservative stuff for major British and Canadian papers. I was seated next to Melania Trump, The Donald's third and present wife, and we hit it off extremely well. Our bête noir was that ...

Nestled under the Acropolis, snug and safe among the ancient ruins of a long-ago grandeur, Plaka remains the only protected area of Athens, with greedy developers as welcome as a certain Minnesota dentist at an Aspinall animal sanctuary. Not that many don’t try. I see signs on old and battered but beautifully classical houses asking for bids “to develop.” No harm in trying, I guess. With the economy in the toilet—horrid ...

The newspaper that prints only what fits its piously fraudulent agenda, The New York Times, has reviewed a book by one Ta-Nehisi Coates twice, both times showering it with praise that would make a Hollywood name-dropper blush. A biweekly that mostly reports on food and gay porn, New York  magazine, put the scribe on the cover, and the author has been lionized like no other since, I suppose, Victor Hugo back in the old ...

We all agree that a world without manners would make this a pretty grim place to live in. Offensive informality is pretty much accepted nowadays, and manners are at times seen as a superficial activity. But good manners are as much a part of our culture as great books, great paintings, and great classical music. Occasionally, of course, one can carry good manners too far. My friend Timmy, a gent and a gem of a man, has ...

I think back to my Greek childhood and longing for the once coziest and most romantic of cities overwhelms me. Actually it’s too painful to think back, all the blood spilled during the Communist uprising, the beautiful neoclassical buildings destroyed by greed and lack of talent, the impeccable manners of the people that showed respect for the elderly, the church, and the nation. They all went with the wind, that horrible ...

I have signed an affidavit for a hearing this week in the High Court stating that Janan Harb was to my knowledge married to Fahd of Saudi Arabia, who later became head of that ghastly country until he ate himself to death. Abdul Aziz, Fahd’s youngest son, a fat playboy who drifts around the world with an entourage of 150 bootlickers, is challenging Janan’s claims, and in the immortal words of Mandy Rice-Davies, “He would, ...

There is an English writer who is going around telling all and sundry that I made a pass at his wife. Now, Englishmen are known not to get too excited about such matters, but in this case the man is simply showing off. I can"€™t for the life of me think what else this is all about, because I have never met his wife, or if I have, I have certainly never made the slightest pass at her. Although this is not very gallant on my ...