His coal-miner father never did approve of Henry Moore's decision to become a sculptor. Says Moore: "He was worried. He thought he would have to support me." Moore fils did quite nicely, becoming one of the most celebrated sculptors of his century and a man whose works, often large and full of holes, have sold for as much as $260,000. To kick off celebrations for his 80th birthday, London's Tate Gallery last week invited Moore and 80 of his special friends to dinner and proudly showed off a prize acquisition: 36 Moore sculptures donated by the artist. Across town, Moore mania also reigned in Kensington Gardens, where Londoners flocked to see a new, permanent display of his works. "A sculpture is like a person and you must treat it like one. You must put it in its best environment, like a person," says Moore. "That's why I like my large sculptures to be sited with trees and water, where they can get a change of light." How would the octogenarian-to-be describe his works? "If you could put it in words," says Moore, "there would be no need for the sculpture."

The role made Elizabeth Taylor a star at 12. Now Tatum O'Neal is the one with the Velvet touch. The sequel to National Velvet, ecumenically titled International Velvet, premiered at Washington, D.C.'s Kennedy Center last week. Tatum, sweet 14 and dressed to kill in a silk suit and spike-heeled sandals, was fetchingly on hand. "I didn't even want to become an actress," she confessed. "It just sort of happened."

Before he struck out in the White House, Richard Nixon often rooted for his favorite ball club, the California Angels, from a privileged spot: the private box of Angels Owner Gene Autry. Last week the former President turned up at Autry's side for the first time since Watergate, munching peanuts and hot dogs as the Angels took on the Kansas City Royals at Anaheim Stadium. Playing good sport, Nixon even gave a short State of the Game address on a local radio show, during which he made perfectly clear that Sandy Koufax was "the world's best pitcher" and Ted Williams "could hit a ball anywhere." After the game, Nixon obligingly autographed baseballs for the fans--and consoled his host. Final score:

Royals 4, Angels 0.

"Now what'll you give old Lester for this genuine Pickrick fly swatter?" shouted Lester Maddox, 62. This remnant from the Pickrick, the ex-Georgia Governor's once racist, now defunct Atlanta restaurant, was part of the Maddox memorabilia sold at auction last week. Also on the block: WAKE UP AMERICA Lester Maddox alarm clocks, T shirts printed with the Governor's favorite expression "Phooey!" and autographed axes like those Maddox once gave to the band of whites helping him keep out blacks who tried to come to dinner. The aim of the auction was to pay off $125,000 in old campaign debts from Maddox's unsuccessful second bid for the governorship in 1974. The total take? A mere $2,500.

Ah, the hazards bravely faced by Sophia Loren in her new thriller Firepower. Careering through Caribbean banana plantations in a Jeep. Getting rained on by bullets. As Adele Tasca, a housewife whose chemist husband has been murdered at the hands of a reclusive millionaire (a combination of Robert Vesco and Howard Hughes), Loren eventually winds up on the side of the bad guys for the first time in her career. "This is more intriguing," she explains. Besides, "you can't become a cliche." Which may be why Loren plans to soon deliver herself into the hands of Director and Feminist Lina Wertmuller to play a Neapolitan charcoal vendor --presumably one with a raised consciousness.

The father of the bride paid the bills and took home movies during the rehearsal. His son-in-law, he is said to feel, "is difficult to get to know be cause he doesn't talk about himself very much." The mother of the bride cried most satisfactorily, and has confided to a friend: "We felt our daughter was a bit too young to make such an important decision."

The bridegroom's father al lowed that now his high-roll ing son had been snared by the determined young lady, he was a changed man. "I come home at 11 o'clock and find him watching television. And he takes a great deal more interest in his brothers now."

Ordinary mortals, the Grimaldis and the Junots. Well, not that ordinary. The wedding of a 38-year-old bachelor like Philippe Junot and a 21-year-old princess like Caroline, whose parents are a former movie star and the head of a very small state, requires some panache, after all--and plenty of paparazzi. Last week's prenuptial goings-on began with a little lunch for 40 given by a friend of Mother's, David Niven, at his villa in nearby Cap Ferrat, where Neighbor Gregory Peck backed his rented Mercedes into Gary Grant's parked limousine. "Guess I got my gears mixed up," apologized Peck. Over at the palace in Monaco that night there was a ball. To gain entry, the likes of Stavros Niarchos, who is into shipping, Mstislav Rostropovich, who is into cellos, and the Begum Aga Khan, who is into diamonds, along with 600 or so nobles and jet-setters, had to queue up for a security check. It was, said one, just "as if it were a supermarket checkout counter." Inside the palace the joy was not entirely unconfined. Noted one guest: "I saw Frank Sinatra talking to Ava Gardner, and I said to myself, 'We've all gotten old.' " But Caroline wore a tiara (borrowed from her mother) and a beatific smile.

At the civil service in the frescoed throne room, only 40 guests watched Caroline, whose hand visibly shook as she signed the marriage register. Afterward, the couple stepped regally onto the balcony overlooking the palace courtyard, where Prince Rainier had invited a melange of Monegasques for high tea and a reception. Also on the menu: champagne and pizza.

Next day, at the religious service outside the palace chapel, Philippe stole a kiss and Caroline cried openly. It was a double-ring ceremony, and they fumbled a good deal getting the rings on. Then, arm in arm, the newlyweds walked to Monaco's Town Hall to accept a wedding gift of a 200-piece silver service from the loyal locals.

When it was all over, the newlyweds successfully escaped from the palace undetected and were whisked away to a honeymoon site that Junot had cleverly kept secret from everyone, including Caroline. And so, as the left-wing French newspaper Le Matin headlined the story, "Caroline Grimaldi, whose father carried 17 titles, will become Mme. Junot. What a victory for democracy!" Or for love.

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