High life
A sticky business
Taki
Washington herehere was a heatwave of sorts in the nation's capital last week, and matters got even stickier when the senior senator from Massachusetts berated the White House for nominating a judge who once upon a time did what the Kennedy family has been doing for the last 20 years.
Being a gentleman, I refuse to mix with the kind of riff-raff that hang around on the Hill, so I sat in my air-conditioned Ritz Carlton hotel room and laughed out loud watching the bloated, aide-infested Ken- nedy blurting out his complaints against the Reagan administration while reading from his notes.
Yes, comedy lives in Washington, and there is no greater comedian than my old friend Teddy. The trouble is that whenever I see him, on the tube or otherwise, I can't help thinking of that other hot night, long ago, in Athens, when he and a relative took dope right in front of me, pushed around some girls when their favours were refused, and then flew off to see the Pope the next day.
I wrote the story at the time, but only The Spectator and Private Eye published it. The two Israeli mouthpieces, the New York Times and Washington Post, refused to touch it with the proverbial ten-foot pole, which was par for the course. After all, Washington Post and New York Times hacks openly admit that they are liberals, and that liberal bashing is like sitting down and breaking bread with Mrs Thatcher.
I flew down to Washington for the American Spectator's 20th anniversary bash, and a good one it was. All the good guys were there, starting with the main speaker, Vice-president Bush, and on down the line. I sat with my best man, Christopher Buckley and his wife (who is expecting a little conservative in about five months) Jimmy Goldsmith, Judge Bork, Fawn Hall, and Arnaud de Borchgrave. One thing I have noticed about conserva- tive gatherings is the lack of drunken slobs that seem to be the rule whenever the left congregates.
Mind you, I did my best to play the house lefty that night, and I even went to the bar during a key speech in order to fortify myself and Chris Buckley before R. Emmett Tyrrell began to speak. Triple whisky or no triple whisky, I had no luck whatsoever with Fawn Hall. Arnaud did his best to build me up, but she only had eyes for a Marine major who is her steady. Oh, well, as the captain of the British Davis Cup team always say, you can't win them all.
The next day my wife and I paid a visit to the ex-sainted editor, Alexander Chancel- lor, who hid in shame as we pulled up in the longest stretch limo this side of Beverly Hills, thanks to the Washington Times.
Alexander lives in a pretty English house, on a quiet tree-lined street, and was busy blazing away on his word processor to the Independent, whose Washington cor- respondent he is. Although it was at least 85° outside, all the windows were shut tight, a fire was lit, and one could hardly see because of the thick cigarette smoke. We had a brief discussion about politics, and then I had to run out for some air in view of my delicate heart condition.
What is good about Washington is that the clowns are on the Hill, and there is very little room for radical and Marxist views. There is a group of social climbing expatri- ate Brits who pose as radicals, but I hear one only sees them in cocktail parties or on the Washington B group gatherings. No one reads them, and their influence is less than zero, if I may borrow a phrase from Hollywood's latest blockbuster.
That evening I dined with Senator Mal- colm Wallop of Wyoming, a man who has as much in common with the Kennedys and Bidens of this world as I have with Rupert Everett, and once again I celebrated far into the night at the Jockey Club. (Far into the night in Washington is a matter of speaking). Then I was off to Chicago, to debate with some female chauvinist pigs on polygamy and the veneration of youth. I shall report on my victory next week.
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