High life A sobering
thought
Taki
Gstaad Bob Tyrrell, the editor of the American Spectator — no relation — has cost me a six-figure sum. Conrad Black, our benevo- lent proprietor, ditto. Life being as expen- sive as it is nowadays, I am furious. The story in brief: in January 1995, following the mid-term elections in America that had seen a Democratic Congress get wiped out, I became convinced that the Draft Dodger would win re-election. The reasons were simple. Clinton was too much of a liar and conman to stick to any principles and the American people too stupefied by trash television to remember the empty promises of the past. Even more persuasive was the fact that every single person I spoke with told me there was no way Clinton could get re-elected. In fact, most were of the opin- ion that he might not even get the Demo- cratic Party's nomination. I remembered my old Daddy's saying that, whenever everyone is convinced of something, it is a sure thing that it won't happen.
So I put out discreet feelers among the bookies, and, although I could not get odds in my favour because (I think) of the bully pulpit the presidency enjoys, I was poised to place the biggest bet of my life. All I will say is that it was closer to seven rather than six figures. Then I made the biggest mis- take of my life. I went to dinner with Bob Tyrrell. In fact, I was with two incredibly beautiful girls, Ann Sophie and Amanda, and instead of talking to them — both are rather thick and have never read a book, which suits me — like a fool I chose to talk politics with Bob. 'There is no way Clinton can win,' said Bob, and then went on to explain the electoral college system that would prevent the flim-flam man from spending four more years living free and high on the hog at the taxpayers' expense.
Now I don't often take advice, especially when it's good, but on that particular night I was disadvantaged. I got very drunk and in my alcoholic stupor I started to believe that Americans were not as idiotic as I thought and that they just might see through the Draft Dodger. Ann Sophie and Amanda did not help. 'Listen to Bob,' they kept saying, `he's sober.' A six-month-long, well-thought-out-while-sober decision was reversed during a two-hour binge with two bimbos and Bob. Things got worse when John O'Sullivan, the Brit editor of National Review, joined us. John is a cautious man.
He once fended off the attentions of a 6ft 2 Inch Serbo-Croat stripper with the excuse that he had a column to write. 'Ws much too much money,' said the cautious one. Drunken fool that I am, I listened to them. `Good for ya, Tak,' chirped the gals.
Like Sir Winston Churchill, however, the next week I was sober and once again began to plot my bet. (While not myself, I had told the bookies all impending bets were off.) The next greatest mistake took place only a year ago. On the brink once again, with the bookies scared but eager to take my bet, I ran into Conrad Black at dinner. `My people tell me that Clinton is finished,' said the benevolent one. He then explained to me the electoral college sys- tem that would prevent the Draft Dodger from giving parties for Hollywood scum in the White House at taxpayers' expense. Alas, I was once again dead drunk and the German contessa I was with did not help. `Er weiss besser; er ist reicher,' she said. (He knows better; he's richer.) So, now I'm close to a million out of pocket thanks to those two gentlemen, not to mention the babes and the German con- tessa. The Draft Dodger is about to win big, and my only consolation is that Dick Morris will not be around next term. (Mor- ris is a horrid man, a ghastly-looking little Noo Yawker whose choice of an ugly hook- er is typical of the man. Show me one's hookers and I'll tell you what kind of per- son he is, was the favourite saying of a 75- year-old Italian gentleman who owns Fiat but one I shall not name for the sake of discretion.) Oh yes, I almost forgot, from now on I shall never again listen to anyone when drunk. With or without babes and contessas.
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