High life

Poetry corner

Taki

Gstaad

TheThe Spectator's High life correspon- dent for nearly 21 years, I would be amiss in my duties if I didn't put personal feelings aside and inform the English-speaking world's most sophisticated readership of the only good deed in Bill Clinton's presi- dency: humour.

Mind you, not his own. Clinton is not a humorous man, like JFK, nor is he vulgarly funny, like LBJ. He is phoney-earnest, like Johnnie Ray, a blues singer of the Fifties who used to cry a lot on stage.

No, the humour I am referring to derives from the Draft Dodger's antics, most of which have been so blatant and outrageous that they have turned housewives into Shakespeares, dullards into wits, lawyers (at least not those in his pay) into poets.

Among the best are a bunch of spiffy lit- tle quatrains from — believe it or not John Wayne's granddaughter, Teresa Wayne, sent with loving care to the poor little Greek boy via Charlie Glass, once the Duke's personal chauffeur. They should be sung to the tune of 'A Few Of My Favourite Things' from the film The Sound of Music. Here is the Bill Clinton version:

Blow jobs and land deals in backwater places, Big Macs and french fries and girls with big faces, Lots of nice cleavage that makes willie spring, These are a few of my favourite things.

Susan McDougal and Gennifer Flowers, Horny young interns who while 'way hours, Profits from futures that Hillary brings, These are a few of my favourite things.

Beating the draft board and getting elected, Naming to judgeships some hacks I've selected, Conspiracy theories that blame the right wing, These are a few of my favourite things.

Meeting with Boris and Helmut and Tony, States of the Union with lots of baloney, Winning debates and the joys of my flings, These are a few of my favourite things.

When the Jones bites, When Ken Starr stings, When I'm feeling sad, I simply remember my favourite things, And then I don't feel so bad ...

OK, OK, perhaps a Californian tetrame- ter doesn't hold a candle to an iambic pen- tameter, but what the hell, it would be a hell of a downer to waste real poetry on the Draft Dodger. It put me in such a good mood, I tried some of it myself:

Golfing with Vernon and urging some perjury, Falling down drunk and requiring knee surgery, Hollywood tarts who come here to 'sing', These are a few of my favourite things ..

They say one should not expect Keats after midnight, and as I write this late into the night, while a rather loud party is going on in my humble little chalet, I do have an excuse, even if I say so myself. The good news is that the world has forgotten all about hunger, war, pestilence and death, and thinks only of the latest Hollywood film noir, The Intern Always Gulps Twice.

Next week, the Academy Awards will surely honour Citizen Came, the sequel to last year's blockbuster 101 Fellations. Per- sonally, I hate films with tricky titles. I pre- fer epigrams that say it like it is: 'What is Clinton's idea of safe sex? A locked door.' `Clinton still maintains he wasn't lying. For once I believe the bum. He was standing and she was kneeling.' When the Draft Dodger was asked what was Monica's best feature, he did not miss a beat. 'She has the whitest teeth I've ever come across.'

I apologise to those readers who find Clinton as disgusting as I do for repeating his best lines, but report I must do. After all, by looking at all the grotesque-looking bimbos Clinton has bedded throughout the years, I now understand how Janet Reno got her job.

It is a sad day when one compares Clin- ton's most memorable line with those of his predecessors. JFK's was Tch bin eM Berlin- er'. Reagan's was 'Tear down that wall, Mr Gorbachev.' Bush's was 'Read my lips'. Clinton's is `S— my dick'. Welcome to the time of the Draft Dodger.