High life
Fawn raider
Taki
long with the forsythia, the pansies were out in force last week, as were the hacks of the White House press corps, for this was the 74th annual White House correspondents' dinner at the local inn that bears Mr Hilton's name.
Perhaps inn is the wrong word. The ballroom alone holds 3,000 people, and it was packed the night of the dinner with ink-stained wretches, electronic media per- sons and — for lack of a better word — politicians. Like last year, I was the guest of Arnaud de Borchgrave, editor of the Washington Times, the newspaper that did not give us Janet Cooke or that other great novelist, Bob Woodward.
Mind you, this is not to say that Arnaud is not the giving type. Far from it He gave me my start in journalism 21 years ago and this time outdid himself by giving me the opportunity to escort a certified enchan-
tress, a woman of such rare qualities and looks it would take sonneteers working three shifts plus overtime to describe her, a shredder of such dexterity she could dis- pose of the records of Kennedy and Biden quicker than one can say the word plagiar- ism. Needless to say, my date for the evening was Fawn Hall, and in a mini-skirt to boot. To say that when given the news I jumped for joy would be an understate- ment on a par with that of Hitler's, who when asked in Hell what he would do if he had his life to live over again replied, 'Next time no more nice guy.'
Alas, things did not turn out as planned. First of all Miss Hall discovered that I was a journalist, and worse, a Greek journalist. She was then told that I am not confined by fact and that sometimes I make things up. Which meant that even if I looked like Errol Flynn and had the mind of Raymond Carr, my chances with her were those of a female hooker in San Francisco. My Waterloo came when I revealed to her that I have a dog called Oliver and that I named it after the good colonel. The look on her face said, 'You people will stoop to any- thing.' And matters got worse. In my desperation I asked her to marry me and was turned down faster than the French army retreated in 1940.
Well, you can't win them all; perhaps next year. In the meantime, Ronald Reagan was in the finest of forms. For someone who has been accused by the liberals of being unable to ad-lib a cough without a cue card, he certainly did a hell of a job. The best joke of the night was not told by him, however. It's about Jesse Jackson's first act upon becoming presi- dent. He will proclaim his birthday a national holiday, as well as those of Michael Jackson and Reggie Jackson (a baseball player). Also 25 March. Why 25 March? Because it's the day the new Cadillacs come out.
Arnaud's tables were filled with political heavyweights, people such as Chief of Staff Howard Baker, Alexander Haig, John Warner and Jack Kemp, but most eyes were on my dinner companion. Afterwards I took Fawn to meet the sainted editor and the ex-sainted one, which in a way helped me save face a bit. Then it was off to bed because the next day I was invited to the White House for lunch. But before you get the wrong idea, the invitation did not come from the present occupants of 1600 Penn- sylvania Avenue. My host was Peter Robinson, a speech-writer for President Reagan and a charming and very intelli- gent young man. When he rang to invite me I told him that I was hardly a favourite of Nancy Reagan in view of the fact that I poke fun at her lap-dog Jerry Zipkin every week. 'Never mind,' said Peter, 'we'll wait on the lawn until she and the President fly off to Camp David.' Which we did, and then the mother of my children and I were given a tour of the place and a delicious lunch.
It was my second time inside the great house, and this time I couldn't help causing a little mischief. I wrote a risque note, put it in an envelope, and dropped it under- neath my chair. I signed it Jerry Zipkin.
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