Gin and crackers on sixth avenue

A COUPLE of years ago, with some time to kill before catching a train in Paris, some madcap said: "Let's go and visit that hotel that's supposed to be the most expensive in the world."
"Just to take a look", was my cautious, optimistic intervention. The hotel was, in fact, the Nova Park, just off the Champs Elysees. We didn't get to see the much-publicised 0,000-8-night Royal Suite with a swimming pool on the balcony but, as we passed the open copy of the Koran, I could only assume it was there to inspire a moment of prayer for the oil millionnaires, for whom the Nova Park, they said, was primarily intended.
For us it was written we should end up in the bar. It was clear that gins and tonics or half pints of lager would bring no respect from the smouldering waiters hovering, so one of the party lost his nerve and ordered champagne.
Did they bow or scrape or murmer respectful little phrases in French? Not on your Channel Tunnel, they didn't. I've had more respect in a Sixth Avenue drug store, ordering coffee and crackers.
The nouveau Nova was not for us or we for it. You will realise how the tears welled in my eyes when I read the other day that, only five years after its lavish opening, its Swiss management company, two million pounds the wiser, has closed its doors. Let the creditors eat cake.
THE NEW minicab driver was a cheerful young chap but, when I got into the back — it was a minicab — my nose almost touched a pretty large red and white notice that said "KLNDLY REFRAIN FROM SMOKING".
As I may have said before, I don't smoke but my hackies rise every time I see this kind of notice — even those more gently phrased — in a cab. However, I held ms peace, sat back as far as I could and went through some papers. Suddenly, I was aware of a click and a cloud of blue smoke over the blond head of my bouncy driver. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I waited and waited. He said nothing.
"Hey" I said, very gently in the circumstances, "Does this notice not apply to you?"
"Oh, that!" as he bounced up and down with laughter,"That just applies to the drunks on Saturday nights."
I have now, as they say, heard everything.
I WAS astonished to read that the New York State Athletic Commission have just been investigating the propriety of the decision in the boxing bout between Kid Gavilan and Bill) Graham (not you-know-who, of course) at Madison Square Garden. Astonished because the fight took place 34 years ago. Happily. there was no case to meet. It was sad to read, however, that the graceful Cuban Gavilan had fallen on bad times, like so many of his fellowgladiators.
Boxing fans in Britain with long memories will remember Gavilan boxing in London in the 1950s. I remember watching him at IHaringes against a young, unbeaten welterweight called Peter Waterman.
The fight went the distance and Waterman won. More pedantically, perhaps, one should say Waterman got the decision.
He was, in fact, a talented, colourful and courageous boxer and Gavilan's practised guile should have been too much for him. Dear old Ben Green, the seventy-one-year-old referee who gave the decision had his licence taken away and a retiring age of 65 was immediately established for referees.
Gavilan was back two months later and reversed the decision against Waterman in no uncertain style. Now, here's a question to add to your Trivial Pursuit list. For what other reason is Peter Waterman known?
Answer: his brother is Dennis Waterman of ,ilinder and many other television shows besides.
1 had only written these words when I read the sad news, that Peter Waterman had died, at the tragically early age of 51. No-one has blamed boxing but it makes you wonder doesn't it.
May he rest in peace.
SUCH IS the hell-raising reputation of actor Oliver Reed that people found it hard to reconcile it with the gentle, charismatic, benevolent squire who appeared as our astonished Guest of Honour a week ago.
Nobody was more relieved than yours truly, especially as I stood, shivering in the snow outside Rossbn Park Rugby Club waiting for him to come out to a barrage of lights and a ring of cameras. His tall, handsome and spitting-image son Mark had said, as I was leaving for the gentle snatch:
"Oh you'll be all right so long as you remember to duck."