Wot Larks!

Tomato-red Rolls-Royce, here he comes!

Cassius Marcellus Clay was in Londontown last week, and he had a lean and hungry look. "I am the prettiest fighter you ever did see," he cried. "The prettiest-and the loudest." Five was Cassius' magic number, the round in which he promised to demolish Henry Cooper, 29, a onetime house plasterer who claims the British and Empire Heavyweight championships. But that was two weeks off. In the meantime, there were 55,000 tickets to be sold, and Cor, luv, wot larks!

Super-Duper. So off to Soho Cassius trooped, to confront Cooper at a press luncheon, arranged by Promoter Jack Solomons. "Henry Cooper is a tramp, a cripple and a bum," Cassius declared. "I'll hit him so many times he'll think he was surrounded." Cooper manfully fought back:

You can say that Mr. Cooper

Doesn't think Clay is so superduper, but he was clearly outclassed. Clay did a spot of sightseeing; Buckingham Palace, he allowed, was "a swell pad. I think I'd like to have a place like that." At Gieves of Bond Street, outfitters to His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, Cassius bought a red brocade cocktail coat and got fitted to a bowler; the fitter respectfully informed him that his head was slightly lopsided. Crowds of autograph hunters packed around. "Who are you?" asked one puzzled Londoner. "Sonny Listen!" Cassius yelled, trying to look mean.

At last Cassius got down to business -so to speak. With his brother Rudolph Valentino Clay, he jogged around London, wearing a sweat suit and paratroop boots, sparred a few desultory rounds, and gave away postcard-size pictures of himself. "Had five, ten thou sand of these printed," Clay explained. Spotting a pretty Negro girl in a crowd, Cassius whistled softly and whispered to friend Ronald King: "Go talk to her, man. That's the cutest thing I've seen since I've been here."

Big, Man. The girl turned out to be a Jamaican secretarial student, and she was there when Clay got back to his hotel room at 4 p.m. "Ho, isn't she a pretty girl?" he cried. "We got the prettiest girl in London right here," Cassius chuckled merrily. "Hey, pretty girl," he said, "you can be my London secretary. We got secretaries all over. We're gonna have offices all over-London, Miami, Los Angeles. And when I get real big, I'll charge a dollar for my picture, and I'll send you a big stack, and you can keep 500 for every one you send out. Saaay, pretty girl! You got a record player, honey? Twist records, rock 'n' roll, Chubby Checker?"

A knock at the door. Four men filed in. "We're from Queen magazine Mr. Clay," said one. "Hope you were expecting us." Cassius bounced up, resplendent in a rainbow-hued sports shirt, eyes flashing, teeth gleaming in a wide and happy grin. "Are you local, national or international?" he asked.

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