“I need to feel like a real woman again,” purrs Brigitte Bardot at 40, “and for that I need a baby.” So much for any rumored cinematic comeback. Bardot is under the thrall of 30ish actor Jean Balise. “No man has ever made me as happy or fulfilled before,” says the woman who’s boasted she must have a man every night. “I want Jean to be the father. Then, if we are still as desperately in love as we are today, we will marry. I’m fed up with being a film star. I want to be a mother.”
To shelter his considerable winnings from the voracious tax bite of his native Sweden, tennis wunderkind Björn Borg moved last winter to Monaco. But Borg, 18, the game’s hottest sex symbol since Gorgeous Gussie Moran flashed her lace panties, is finding that his new principality also levies a tax, albeit hidden: its tanned Riviera beauties and fabled parties. After watching the Swede lose a match to an obscure British pro, one spectator, perhaps with Borg’s active social life in mind, commented: “His legs have got very sluggish. He moves like an old, old man.”
The Way He Was
The thin prisoner said to live within every fat person was glimpsed when Roy (Hee Haw) Clark unveiled a statue of himself at the Movieland Wax Museum in Buena Park, Calif. Casting was begun a year ago, when Clark weighed a hefty 250; by the unveiling, he had slimmed to 210 pounds after collapsing on a Las Vegas stage from exhaustion. A museum spokeswoman defended the likeness by pointing out that “people still think of Roy Clark as fat.” The singer, who is still dieting toward his goal of 185 pounds and working on a book titled The Roy Clark Stuff Yourself Silly Diet Book, also admired the bloated image: “It’s a good reminder,” he says, “like putting a picture of yourself on the refrigerator door.”
Alexander Butterfield, the former Haldeman aide whose stunning revelation of the White House taping system was the critical crack in the Watergate stonewall, helplessly resigned this month from his subsequent job, head of the Federal Aviation Administration. Sandbagged by vengeful Nixonmen still in the government, Butterfield has no regrets about his Senate committee testimony. “I was a loyal troop,” he explains. “But my mother also raised me to be an honest troop, and I told the truth. No other way.”
A simple nyet would have sufficed, but Vladimir Kokonien, who dictates which foreign entertainers will perform in the USSR, turned critic as well in rejecting an application he’s seen before: “The group do nothing to help people achieve self-perfection. They lack glamor, novelty and sparkle. They are unattractive, and they have no originality.” So once again Mick Jagger is barred from taking the Rolling Stones to Moscow.
“I have not been loved in return,” George Jessel, 77, laments about the ladies he’s escorted since his fourth marriage failed in 1942. In a book due this fall, he puts his ignominy into print. According to Jessel, a fling with 1930s film star Lupe Velez ended the night the Mexican Spitfire, wielding a steak knife with a picador’s skill, impaled his hand on a restaurant table. Georgie also details how he was driving Rita Hayworth to Las Vegas for their nuptials when he suddenly U-turned back for Hollywood. Seems she awoke from a nap with the words, “I love you, Phil.”
•Despite a weight problem that has plagued her adolescence, Caroline Kennedy, 17, has developed a Hibernian fancy for beer. And, finishing school or no, she insists on chugging it straight out of the can.
•Even at 88, virtuoso Arthur Rubinstein reports that his passion for women has kept pace with his passion for the piano. Speaking of the former, he said, “I need to be surrounded by them. They don’t have to be anything special, I can enjoy looking at the legs of a stupid woman.”
•It’s a wonder that shuttle plenipotentiary Henry Kissinger can still fasten his seat belt. Declaring the 51-year-old Secretary of State his flabbiest client ever, a Palm Springs masseur summed up, undiplomatically: “He hasn’t got a muscle anywhere in his body.”