High life
In the steps of Demosthenes
Taki
ToRockford, Illinois the heartland of America, corny and flat as a pancake, but folksy, nice and with a Fifties, small-town feeling. The occasion was the 13th annual meeting of the John Randolph Club, an offshoot of the Rockford Institute, which publishes Chronicles, a magazine of American culture. Tom Fleming, a scholar, is the driving force behind both the magazine and the institute, so when he rang to invite me to speak I agreed immediately; but when the time came to prepare the speech I suddenly got very cold feet. Speaking to students is easy, they know fuck-all, but addressing scholars, professor emeriti and Ph.Ds is no picnic. Or so I thought. (Incidentally, and I use the pages of the Speccie to get the message across as I have no other means, I apologise to the president of the Cambridge Union for not answering his invitation to debate at the union, but it was too hectic a time with the launch of the American Conservative and I lost his letter to boot. Sorry.)
The three-day seminar had 'America: The Divided Land' as its theme. All the speakers were distinguished scholars, and I was scheduled to be the last speaker on Saturday evening. 'Coming to America' was the theme of my speech. I had memorised it and it came off pretty well. In fact I had them rolling in the aisles. Rockford is a Swedish enclave, 90 or so miles northwest of Chicago, but my hopes of meeting monosyllabic blondes who would strip off immediately and jump into a sauna with me were dashed by Scott McConnell, my executive editor, who advised me to take the mother of my children along. She is one of my harshest critics where public speaking is concerned — 'You speak too fast and you're always drunk' — but this time she gave me her seal of approval. 'You were Demosthenian.'
Demosthenian or not, the only way to enjoy giving a speech is by not having to read it out. There were many questions about the American Conservative following the speech, and the Chronicles crew was extremely gracious in handing out the issues I had lugged halfway across the country in my suitcase. We are, after all, competition of sorts. John Randolph, for any of you who took female studies or other such nonsense as a major at university, was a longtime senator from Virginia, an ardent regionalist, and a man who hated banks. Rockford is a small town of about 75,000 which has managed to attract quite a number of gangsters, Chicago mobsters who thought that Rockford was an ideal place to bring up children. There are infamous names such as Gambino Realty and Genovese Machine Tools all over the place, and the Catholic churches have an air of great wealth. (The bigger the sinner, the richer the church.) Needless to say, these are exciting times. Americans are on a war footing, and some of them are even starting to know where Iraq is located. The American Conservative is against the war — we will certainly win the battle but definitely lose the peace — which has a great Samurai warrior by the name of Bill Kristol calling the poor little Greek boy all sorts of names. Loathsome and unpleasant are among the nicest, but what the hell. We can't all be as brave as Kristol, a man who was known for his bravery while on the Harvard debating team. So that others may die, is his motto. Kristol takes Murdoch gold, lotsa gold, and used to be a spelling adviser to Dan Quayle. He first pushed Colin Powell for president but, after failing to get his man the first prize, he turned against him and demanded his resignation as secretary of state because of Powell's reluctance to nuke every country whose inhabitants wear tablecloths on their heads. A careerist par excellence, Kristol will not rest until Arid l Sharon or Bibi Netariyahu fly their personal standards over the White House. He could, of course, change his mind if things don't pan out, and end up pushing for some towelhead to head the country. One never knows with such types. In the meantime, he has kristolised the Murdoch news channel, to kristol being a verb that means to mislead and misinform, to lead astray.
And speaking of kristolising, Bill Blair is now the equal to Tony Clinton, the only difference being that, although they both have ghastly wives, Blair's father-in-law is far worse than Clinton's. What a bunch of wankers the English have become. It's close to six years that this gang that can't shoot straight has been in power, yet no one raises an eyebrow when this clown demands more time to get the sick off the streets and into a hospital bed. Take it from me, Blair will see the IRA rule the roost in the province, just as he will see the pound go the way of the drachma. Next week marks the 25th anniversary of the greatest Greek writer since Homer joining The Spectator, and I will do a nostalgic Iliad-like opus for you.
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