31 OCTOBER 1998, Page 69

High life

Rural idyll


course, a German from Saxony, Schoen- burg country.) Oscar is the famous designer and a friend for 35 years. Anette and the mother of my children grew up together. Reinaldo and Carolina Herrera and some other old friends made up the perfect weekend party. We got the giggles early on, when Reinal- do's chauffeur drove to Spanish Harlem by mistake and almost got us into a Bonfire of the Vanities situation. Once the mother of my children and the Herraras spoke to the rabble in Spanish, their mood changed. We were treated like the Pope. It was obvious they thought we were rich drug dealers.

Once out in the open county it all came back. There is nothing more nostalgic as far as I am concerned than a brisk, sunny autumn afternoon in New England. When I was locked up in school, October Saturdays were what you looked forward to all week. The classes were short, and girls came to the campus. Just after the early lunch we would hear the marching bands practising, and that's when the butterflies took over. The only way to get a girl's attention back then was to shine on the playing field. Ergo the butterflies. If you screwed up you lost more than just a game.

In the last game of my last year, as co- captain of the football team, against our traditional rivals, in the closing seconds I made a forehead play that cost us the match. Four years of playing varsity foot- ball, the last game as co-captain, went down the drain. Still, looking at the bril- liant colours of the maples, remembering one's youth, made even that last-minute disaster seem a happy experience. I believe that's when the saying 'snatching defeat from the jaws of victory' came into being.

The even better news is that 'Top Draw- er', my tiny organ appearing in the New York Press, has had a rather good recep- tion. Items about it have appeared in Bagel papers, and one editor is reputed to be upset. So what else is new? Editors can dish it out but turn into nattering ninnies when the pop gun is pointed at them. Take Rusbridger, for example. The lowlife took Fayed's bullshit as gospel, and ruined the I like an authentic home-cinema experience.' life and career of a Tory MP, Neil Hamil- ton. Taking a proven liar's word and using it as fact must be the lowest form of jour- nalism. Ditto for Jonathan Aitken. I cannot help my friend Jonathan, but am helping to finance the lawsuit Hamilton will bring against the people who spread the lies that ruined him. Rusbridger and his loathsome bunch should not be editing a national newspaper. Perhaps an underground muck- sheet at best. Jonathan Boyd Hunt has got their number. It will all come out in court one day. I only hope the grotesque bunch will not have poisoned the British political climate beyond repair.

But why speak of such horrors when I am here in the Big Bagel, surrounded by loyal writers and beautiful secretaries tak- ing dictation and looking at me in the most adoring fashion? (And if you believe this you'll believe the Guardian prints the truth.) New York is very exciting at this time of year, with parties galore and all the pretty girls out and about. Next week is the election, and I will celebrate it chez William Buckley. I say celebrate but it could turn into a wake. The Republicans have proved themselves useless, allowing the Draft Dodger to hoodwink them yet again. The scumbag is now safe. He will finish his term and will be punished only by history. Every perjurer will claim Clinton as his legal father, which is quite a legacy to leave behind.