High life
In error
Taki
New York
Well, Claus Bulow received 30 years of confined living among ethnic minorities up in Rhode Island, and it made all the East Coast front pages. It also gave the Falklands a respite, thus proving
beyond any reasonable doubt where the Fourth Estate's priorities really lie. That very same day some hysterical humanoids, demonstrated for hours in front of the British Consulate against Her Majesty's troops' presence in Northern Ireland. 'Out of Northern Ireland and Argentina and back to your stinking island,' they scream- ed while the television cameras of all the major networks whirred away. My only thought was one of of regret that TV didn't exist around 1939 so that we could have recorded film of the grandfathers and fathers of these beings while they demonstrated for that loveable if crusty Uncle Joe Stalin. But such are the ways of the Left, and we should know by now that only fools like the backers and leaders of the SDP fall for them. But I want to talk about Claus and the week I've just had, not about humanoids and opportunists and the SDP.
The day before Claus was sentenced I sat naked and sweating next to a federal judge. There was a boxing tournament coming up and I was trying to lose enough water in order to fight a midget, or at least someone as lightweight as, say, David Owen. The judge is an old friend of mine, and we often sit in a steam bath together. That night he told me that he was astounded when the jury brought in a Guilty verdict. The fact that two witnesses testified that Sunny Bulow took insulin in order to lose weight, and that she was a heavy drinker, should have been enough to clear any man, accor- ding to my friend. 'People don't perjure themselves in court for old times' sake,' was the way he put it. He also said that evidence that was acquired without a search warrant has kept thousands of criminals walking around free. In Bulow's case it turned out to be the very thing that convicted him.
What my judge didn't know, and I do, is something that makes the case smell even more: the judge who presided over Claus's trial is a very close friend of Claus's mother-in-law, a woman who has throughout her daughter's marriage detested Claus. I am not a law expert but I know enough to see that something is wrong. Judge Needham should have step- ped down, and if he didn't have the integri- ty to do it Bulow's lawyer should have found out in time. Now it's all up to the ap- peal, but with the kind of publicity the press has been giving Claus I don't think anyone is ready to give him the benefit of the doubt.
On the brighter side of things is the fact that the temperature has stayed in the seventies and everyone suddenly has been throwing parties. As I have written before in these pages I love living in America but cannot stand the natives. Last week, however, I went out couple of times and I must admit I enjoyed myself tremendously. Not that I didn't finish up having a fight. The altercation was over one of Henry Ford's most vulgar possessions. Sorry, ex- possessions. When Henry first came to Europe with his wife and children he had the bad luck to meet one Christina Vittore,
a bleached, brash and extremely common Italian woman. Those were the days when Americans still thought themselves members of the Anglo-Saxon race and en- joyed the vulgarity and earthiness of Italians a la Sophia Loren. Ford took Vit- tore for what she was and eventually mar" ried her. It was, to say the least, a costly mistake. About ten to twenty million dollars' worth. By the time he realised that what boys like to hang around with on a boys' night out is not something one should bring home, it was too late. Christina Ford had got on everyone's guest list and, worse, has remained on everyone's list even after Henry saw the light and paid her off. Throughout their marriage (which by the way was made not in heaven but in Taiwan) I acted differently towards Christina Ford from the way most people did. That means I didn't grovel, or listen to her vulgar stories. For some reason she never liked me while she was married to her duce, and continued to hate me after he got rid of he Like most Italians, however, she would never say anything to my face. Last week she ran into the mother of my children and, realising who she was, began to insult her Alexandra thought that it was some old nanny of mine whom I had neglected to pay, or a housekeeper I once had an argil' ment with. When I heard about it I tried to find the woman but she was long gone. A young man of the homosexual persuasion asked me what I had against the ex-Mrs Ford, and got me to do something I've never thought possible: hit someone by proxy. But before you're appalled at In) dastardly act, it was only a slap — on Ins bottom. But I did hold him rather tight when I bent him over.
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