3 AUGUST 1991, Page 41

High life

Out west


The only town I missed during my Odysseus-like peregrinations of last month was Ithaca, New York, where a noodle- brain I plan to give a knuckle sandwich to resides. His name is Martin Bernal and

he's a Brit trying to pass himself off as a scholar. But as my ancestor Aristotle once said of Demosthenes, 'scholar my arse'.

Although all the male Taki family were charter members of the Peripatetic school of philosophy, I will not bore you with a treatise on the intellectual grandeur that was Greece. I will simply tell you why Bernal is going on a liquid diet the moment I run into him. This intellectual bankrupt has just published an opus claiming that the Ancient Greeks were in reality a bunch of towelheads, and rubs it in by saying we were black to boot. To someone like me, once described by Nigel Dempster as the true inheritor of Plato, this is criminal libel. And Bernal will pay for it, if it's the last thing I do.

Mind you, nothing written in America nowadays surprises me. The academic ter- ror is at its peak and non-thinkers like Bernal are bending over backwards trying to ingratiate themselves with the multi- culturalists. Abusing scholarship in the name of anti-racism is the order of the day, or, as Socrates according to Bernal might have said, 'Yo, motherf—r.' (Reminds one of that all-black cast production of Oedipus Rex of the same name.)

And speaking of political correctness, I've just completed my tour of California state, where the cry 'Hey, hey, ho, ho, Western culture has to go' was first heard. At times it was a nightmare experience. In San Francisco I was booed by homosexuals in the audience during a radio programme. My sin was to have attacked the 'outing' that has now surfaced even in England. Outing, incidentally, is purely political. It is also a big lie, as in the case of Tom Selleck, a man as queer as I am. His sin? Easy. He is a conservative, and an avid reader of National Review.

Except for the gays, San Francisco is a hell of a city. In fact it didn't seem at all American. Alas, LA is a unique American phenomenon. It is the city of wet dreams, a place where people who are grief-stricken over the banality of their existence decide to have meaningful lives by hand-waxing their Volkswagens.

There, too, I had problems. This time from a lady who ran the Dukakis campaign, thank God not successfully. She blamed people like me for the reason the ghetto is full of drugs, forgetting the fact that I took drugs secretly, and that it was pinkoes like herself who praised the ghastly stuff during the Sixties.

Needless to say, I don't think people who saw me on TV or heard me on radio went out and bought the book. I am politically incorrect, and at this moment that doesn't sell.

It doesn't help with girls either. One part-time actress taking me around called herself an actor when I asked her what she did for a living, which led me to protest at the barbarism, and led her to tell me to go to hell. Which is an easy place to find in El Lay.