Lunch With the FT: 52 Classic Interviews (35 page)

The only thing that really annoys him these days, he said, is young wrestlers who fail to show respect for elders. Ushiomaru looked impassive.

What, apart from fame and wealth, were the rewards? The nice thing
about sumo is that ‘you get out of the game what you put into it’. What did you get out of it? I asked. Simply, Akebono said he had grown up. Not all foreign would-be wrestlers understand this, he added, with a touch of sadness.

‘Foreigners think we [Japanese-trained wrestlers] are just big bullies. In the stable, you are broken down physically and mentally. But they only do this to new wrestlers because they see a future in you. Then they start again from the beginning to build you back up. Most of us who come here from America think they can change the sport. But it’s not like that. You have to change yourself into the sport.’

Their plates were empty again, but not mine. The veal was delicious, but I couldn’t even begin the rice. Akebono accepted my bowl, with a nod of his sumo topknot, and passed it to his junior, who dispatched it quickly.

Having assimilated so well, did Akebono consider himself Japanese? In some ways, yes, he said. He became a Japanese citizen six months ago, hopes to marry a Japanese soon and wants to retire in Japan and run a stable in six years. By then he will have been a yokozuna for a decade, a rare accomplishment.

But there are parts of him that will never leave Hawaii. First, his mum. He returns home once a year to keep an eye on his mother and her sumo gift shop – ‘golf balls with little sumo faces on top, T-shirts, knick-knacks’ – which Akebono set up to keep her occupied after his father died four years ago. She makes a wonderful macadamia nut and toffee pie, he added. By great good fortune, it happened to be the dessert of the day at Trader Vic’s. Two helpings each for the wrestlers; just the one for me.

Another part of Akebono that remains distinctively non-Japanese is his fighting style. While most Japanese wrestlers tend to grapple or lift their opponent out of the ring, Akebono charges like a bull to make best use of his superior size and speed.

‘Yeah. Push! Push! Push!’ he exclaimed, pushing his forearms into the air. The glasses rattled. The trouble is, he added, that his best opponents have got wise to this and just step out of the way when they see the charge coming. ‘In that case, I just step back and when they step in again, I hit them. Think basketball …’

As the yokozuna stood for the photographer, I paid the bill and
watched Akebono trying to quell his natural inclination to laugh and respond to the photographers’ request to look fierce. This was going to be difficult. He could only put on his ‘ring face’ in the ring, he said. So we stopped talking to let Akebono concentrate. The smile gave way to calmness, and then that murderous look, eyes glistening.

I nervously shook hands, wondering whether he would note the sweatiness of my palms. ‘You might have made a good wrestler,’ he said, as we headed towards the lift. I doubted I could manage the
hinkaku
, at which the yokozuna smiled again. Demonstrating
hinkaku
, he stopped at the pay-desk and offered to pay the bill. When I said I would not dream of it, he bowed and said in Japanese, ‘That was a feast.’

On the ground-floor lobby, Akebono headed straight for Louis Vuitton’s New Otani branch to pick up a green leather folder, a present to himself, he said. I watched him being driven away, in a Chevrolet Suburban, an electric blue pick-up truck with smoked-glass windows. The muffled boom of rock music could be heard from the Suburban, and the last I saw of the yokozuna were his meaty fingers, tapping out the beat on the bodywork. Think basketball …

29 SEPTEMBER 2001

The US war on terrorism has put a strain on the natural confidence of the Pakistani cricketer-turned-politician

By Edward Luce

It is not often one gets to meet a childhood hero. But Imran Khan, Pakistan’s finest-ever cricketer, and still the heart-throb of a million adolescent girls, is not in the mood for nostalgia. There is a strong atmosphere of foreboding in Islamabad, Pakistan’s gleaming modern capital, following the country’s decision to back the US in its war on terrorism.

‘For the first time in my life, I’m starting to feel rather old,’ said Imran. ‘I’ve always been a natural optimist. But the terrorist attacks and America’s declaration of war on terrorism both trouble me deeply.’

Dressed elegantly in a white shalwar kameez, the UK-educated leader and founder of the small Justice Movement party looks much younger than his 49 years. But there was also an air of wistfulness about the former Pakistan captain. And it took some effort to coax him off the subject of the US and what everyone in Pakistan assumes to be the impending war in Afghanistan.

We met, appropriately enough, at the Kabul Restaurant, a thread-bare Afghan outlet in the centre of Islamabad. Imran’s presence did not raise an eyebrow. ‘I love Afghani food – the mutton you get here is the most tender in the world,’ he said.

Imran ordered for us both: a simple meal of kebabs, stewed spinach,
and unleavened Afghan bread. Although he was born in Punjab, Imran’s family originally came from the Pathan tribal areas that border and spill over into neighbouring Afghanistan. The hardline Taliban regime of Afghanistan is dominated by Pathans.

Romanticized by Kipling and others as the least repressible people in the British Raj, the ‘martial’ Pathans of the north-west frontier province have also supplied many of the fast bowlers that have brought Pakistan such success on the cricket field. Imran, of course, is the most celebrated of them all.

Our conversation inevitably turns to General Pervez Musharraf’s recent decision to back possible US-led action against Afghanistan. ‘Afghanis are our cousins, we share the same blood,’ said Imran. ‘Any attack that results in the death of innocent Afghani civilians will provoke an enormous backlash in Pakistan. It would be deeply immoral.’

As a graduate of Politics, Philosophy and Economics from Keble College, Oxford, Imran is well placed to observe the miscommunication that often curdles relations between Islamic countries and the west and expresses anxiety that the terrorist attacks on the US could provoke broader conflict between Islam and the west.

At the same time, he is dismissive of the religious hardliners in Pakistan who have come out on the streets to chant ‘Death to America’ and ‘Long live Osama’ – in support of Osama bin Laden, prime suspect for the outrages.

‘These people are not representative of most Pakistanis,’ said Imran. ‘But the western media, especially the TV outlets, have been focusing almost exclusively on the Islamic hardliners.

‘All it does is reinforce the stereotype of the Muslim as a mad fanatic.’

Although broadly secular in his philosophy, Imran says he has also been the target of western media stereotyping, especially when, in 1995, he announced his engagement to Jemima Goldsmith, daughter of James Goldsmith, the late Anglo-French industrialist and Eurosceptic.

Imran flinches at the memory. ‘I could not believe the British press coverage of my engagement to Jemima. They said I was going to lock her up in a room somewhere in Pakistan and never let her out.’

Imran was also vilified by most of Pakistan’s Urdu-language newspapers over his bride’s Jewish background. ‘The coverage over here was equally
upsetting. I was accused of being a Zionist and working for the Israelis. The whole episode was very disillusioning.’

Imran eats deftly with his fingers, an elegant contrast to my clumsy efforts with the knife and fork. He sips from a bottle of cola. I ask whether his experiences with the media have made him pessimistic about the possibility of Islam and the west ever peaceably co-existing.

Imran seems troubled. ‘What the terrorists did in New York and Washington has nothing to do with Islam,’ he said. ‘The west doesn’t blame Hinduism when the Tamil Tigers launch suicide bombers in Sri Lanka so why are they so quick to blame Islam when there are actions such as this?’

But Imran is also keen to emphasize that the west, especially the US, has done much to create the breeding grounds for people such as bin Laden. ‘America’s support of what Israel is doing in the occupied territories, and the sanctions on Iraq that are killing thousands of innocent children, give Muslims the impression that America has serious double standards.

‘Of course it is vital that the guilty are punished for the terrorist attacks on America but it is also important that America removes some of the deep causes of resentment that many Muslims feel.’

So, tough on terrorism and tough on the causes of terrorism?

Imran agrees emphatically.

We polish off what remains of the mutton and he orders some green Afghan tea with sugar.

What, I asked, had persuaded him to turn to Pakistani politics? It seemed so far removed from the world of cricket and the glamorous life that Imran was reputed to have enjoyed whenever he was outside Pakistan.

Imran says he became interested in politics when the ‘deep corruption’ of Pakistan’s ‘ruling mafia families’ began to dawn on him in the mid-1980s. At the same time, in 1985, his mother died of cancer. Her death – ‘the most life-changing thing that has ever happened to me’ – prompted him to re-evaluate his philosophy.

Imran spent much of the next decade raising money for the construction of a specialist cancer hospital in Lahore that is named after his mother. ‘When you go out on the streets asking people for money it has a profound effect on your character. It brings you out of yourself,’ he said.
‘That experience also opened my eyes to the role money plays in Pakistan politics.’

With Imran having been falsely accused of siphoning off donations from the cancer hospital – in spite of the fact that he was the largest donor to the charity – his young party ran on an anti-corruption ticket in the 1997 election. A lack of money meant it failed to get anywhere, he says. Even today, it merits barely any press coverage in Pakistan. ‘To get media coverage in Pakistan you need to have a lot of money.’

But Imran’s natural optimism – some would say innocence – is irepressible. Against all the evidence, Imran predicts his party will come to power at the next general election in Pakistan.

‘Optimism works,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘In my first Test match I thought I was going to get 100 runs and 10 wickets. If I thought I would get nowhere in politics I wouldn’t bother.’

It was time for a parting of the ways. At just $5, the bill for lunch seemed unjustly small.

‘Leave them a big tip,’ Imran advised. As we were getting up, I asked him if he missed the world of cricket and international stardom.

He thought for a moment. ‘The world of cricket seems so small and far away,’ he said. ‘What I am doing now with the cancer hospital and through politics gives me a much, much greater sense of fulfilment.’

1 JULY 2011

Doping brought the cycling champion to the brink of losing it all. Now he is a ‘clean’ crusader – but will two bottles of wine over lunch scupper his chances in the Tour de France?

By Tom Robbins

It is 1.30pm and Scott’s of Mayfair, a renowned fish restaurant on one of London’s smartest streets, is buzzing. White-aproned French waiters dance between tables at which expensively dressed men and women are toasting their latest successes. At one end of the small room former snooker world champion Ronnie O’Sullivan is entertaining a group of friends; at the next table society designer Nicky Haslam makes a glamorous journalist laugh, and to my right some executives from Louis Vuitton are engaged in deep conversation with a prominent magazine editor. My table, however, is silent.

David Millar is late and, as I sit re-reading the menu and examining the cutlery, I start to worry whether he’s coming at all. After all, professional cyclists are not known for their hearty appetites, especially in the run-up to the Tour de France, the biggest race of the year, which starts this weekend. Fans are familiar with whippet-thin figures hunched over their bikes and articles in cycling magazines describe obsessive regimes to reduce body fat, and thus avoid carrying unnecessary weight up the Tour’s vicious mountain climbs. But Scott’s menu features oysters with wild boar sausages, fresh Devon crabs and lobster thermidor: if Millar does turn up, will he insist on a protein shake and stick of celery?

My fears are unnecessary. When Millar rushes in, 30 minutes late, he
apologizes, blames the traffic, orders a beer and starts discussing the menu. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all day,’ he says, eyes gleaming. ‘I love restaurants like this, that classic French service, all so business-like.’ I gingerly push the wine list across the table. We are meeting three weeks ahead of the Tour and I can’t help feeling that I might be leading him astray. But Millar doesn’t demur, and orders a bottle of Viognier Sainte-Fleur 2008.

In fact, being led astray is a large part of what people know about Millar. In 2004, he was reigning world time-trial champion, leader of French team Cofidis, with a string of race wins to his name, a million-euro annual contract and a playboy lifestyle. And then, on a summer’s evening in one of Biarritz’s best restaurants, a team of policemen burst in, grabbed Millar and bundled him into a police van. After two days in a cell, he confessed: he had repeatedly used performance-enhancing drugs. ‘I knew I was going to lose everything – the house, the car, the lifestyle, the job, the respect …’