High life
My new best friend
Taki
New York Had I read a letter from Michael Foot that appeared in last week's Sunday Tele- graph concerning the evils of 'triumphant Murdochism in all its tricks and corrupt practices,' the last thing I would have done is to fly down to the nation's capital in order to dine with, as I ended up calling him, Rupee baby.
In his letter Mr Foot attacks both my new best friend, as well as the greatest Prime Minister Britain has ever had, and all in the name of virtue. Needless to say, Foot got his idea from a recent Telegraph article, a fact that doesn't surprise me at all. The only ideas worth talking about have always come from the Right. What does surprise me is the vehemence of the rhetoric against Rupert Murdoch, especial- ly from those whose jobs he preserved by breaking the unions that had made British newspapers the laughing-stock of the busi- ness world. Oy veh, as an old Jew in Athens used to tell me, no good deed goes unpunished.
Given the fact that I had just appeared on a Washington television programme arguing that American women make lousy lovers (they refuse to pick up after one, are bad cooks, and spend their time jogging), I was pleasantly surprised to find only two women dining with Rupert and yours truly, but lots of men. Neither of the ladies spoke, which made it an especially pleasant dinner. Bob Tyrrell was the host, but thank God I did most of the talking — and drinking, I fear. We talked only politics and newspapers, the first time ever that I've been to an American party where no fashion designer's name was dropped.
After dinner, well into my cups, I offered my new best friend a ride, but he declined. I watched him while he hailed a taxi, not bad for a modern-day tycoon. There was no stretch limo, no minder, and certainly no bullshit. The last is what the hacks will never forgive Murdoch. Plus the fact that he has a beautiful wife who doesn't move her lips when she thinks.
The fun, however, went on without Rupee baby. In the Jockey Club, to be exact, the favourite hangout for those who work at the mendacious Washington Post — the only newspaper I know whose one accurate item is centred daily at the top of the page, under the logo: that is, the date. I got my yearly lecture from Arnaud de Borchgrave, the editor of the Washington Times, about my drinking, and then it was time to move to yet another bar, in the company of Tom Bethell, a man who writes poetry but cannot hold his liquor.
The next day I lunched with an old flame now stationed in the capital and Professor Kenneth Lynn, the man who has written the definitive biography of my hero, Papa Hemingway. I told the good professor about how I had once followed Heming- way down Madison Avenue back in 1956. Papa wore a brown tweed suit and I ordered an exact copy that afternoon. He swaggered when he walked, and I've been copying his swagger ever since. He turned into El Borracho, a popular bar at the time, and I began to hang out there. After months of swaggering and drinking I found out that the man I had followed but had never had the courage to engage in con- versation was a total phoney.
Oh well, it could have been worse. I could have copied a fool like Foot, or a jerk like Harold Pinter, God forbid. And speaking of fools and jerks, I have yet to hear the fools and jerks of the Left apologise for the creed — now lying in ruins in eastern Europe — they so long and gladly sustained. (Not only have they not' apologised, they're still sustaining it). If they don't publicly say they're sorry and mea culpa, none of them will be invited to my Tall of Socialism' bash next June.
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