High life
All's well that ends well
Taki
I am invited by the Washington Times, the conservative daily which tells it like it is in a town where the truth is as rare as it is in an Oliver Stone film. Alas, he's here, guest of a glossy. So what else is new? The dinner is held in the Washington Hilton's cavernous hall, a place big enough to with- hold the massive belches of PC jargon ema- nating from the television personalities holding forth. I am seated close enough to Hillary Clinton to feel an overwhelming sense of cul-de-sacness.
The gentleman on my left is the ambas- sador of the People's Republic of China, all 1,200,000,000 of them and counting. He is a friendly sort of chap, but his sense of humour is not exactly mine. I try a couple of jokes, but His Excellency has never even heard of a zip code, not to mention a zip- per. During the playing of the national anthem I am about to tell the ambassador that — political differences notwithstand- ing — he should stand up, but then I notice that he's as erect as I would be if Miss Sharon Stone gave me five minutes in pri- vate. Oh well, we all can't be as tall as the man on my right, Christopher Buckley, the best writer since Aristophanes, and twice as funny. (As well as best man on a day that shall live on in infamy, my wedding day.) The trouble started with a comedian called Al Franken, who frankly is as funny as a fart in church. Franken's jokes played off Newt Gingrich's remarks that women aren't suited for military combat because they 'have biological problems staying in a foxhole for 30 days'. (Truer words have never been spoken.) Franken, who obvi- ously prefers the low blow to the bon mot, brought Newt's 13-year-old daughter into it, imagining the Speaker talking to her about her first 'infection'. It was par for the course. What else can we expect from an emotional illiterate, a master of debauched imbecility, one that considers the War Hero to be on a par with Alexander the Great.
This is the bad news. The good took place the next day. Bill Cook was the head of St Elmo's fraternity house at the Univer- sity of Virginia, and the man who pledged me as an Elmo. THE university, as it's known, is the last bastion of civility in the United States, at least where I'm con- cerned. I spent the happiest time of my life there, surrounded by southern gentlemen who adhered to the strict honour code of the institution, one no one I knew ever got close to breaking. I had not seen Billy in exactly 40 years, not until a common friend, Bob Smith, gave a wonderful brunch in his Georgetown house — lovelies included in order for a southern gent and the poor little Greek boy to meet again. Cook, as was to be expected, has done rather well for himself. I owed him a lot while back in school. He was known as the virtuoso, a master of eloquence and charm, and he was as nice as he was charming. Incidental- ly, his daughter Ann is married to a Brit, Michael Dean, both loyal Speccie readers. There were other good friends present, including the father of my little boy's room- mate at Le Rosey. As none of us is related to Clinton, we did not pretend to feel each other's pain after so many years of separa- tion, but we did get good and drunk.
The centre of gravity in university life, at least in THE university, is the fraternity, and it takes place in beautiful ante-bellum- style houses with white-columned verandas. It offers lifelong friendships based on hon- our and civilised behaviour. Typically, the PC, multicultural types, are trying to do away with it. Over Cookie's and my dead body is all I have to say. What a marvellous way to end a weekend that began rather badly, to say the least.
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