Spectator, September 30, 2006
To Rome for a christening, which turned out to be a media event like no other. Although I am a failed Christian — I refuse to turn the other cheek — I have attended church ceremonies regularly, mostly for weddings and funerals, and not a small amount of baptisms. This one, however, was unique. It was the first time I’ve seen a priest at the altar signalling to a cardinal to get closer to Elle Macpherson so he could take a picture. For a moment I thought the priest might be a paparazzo in disguise, but no such luck. He was the real McCoy, a man of the Church, but I suppose celebrities nowadays impress even men of God.
Outside the beautiful and grand Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore there were more paparazzi than there are failed Iraqi experts in Washington. Never have I seen such a scrum, and all that for a baby being baptised. The parents, needless to say, are mega-rich Arkie Busson, a man I’ve known since the day he was born and then some, and the Australian model Elle Macpherson, now almost as rich as Arkie due to bras, knickers and other female accessories. Ironically, Arkie and Elle split some time ago, but the split never got in the way of the baptism and the two great parties which followed.
The lunch at La Caccia, Rome’s most exclusive and aristocratic club, was hosted by Eduardo Teodorani, an Agnelli through his mother and a London-based Lothario. Never have I seen so many pretty girls turn out for a lunch following a christening. That evening the festivities continued at Via Mafalda di Savoia, named after the martyred princess who died in a death camp, and whose house has probably the grandest garden in all of Rome. It would take an Olympic sprinter on steroids more than 30 seconds going at record speed to reach the house from the front gate, and this in the middle of the Eternal City.
Mind you, it’s possible only because it’s Rome. In America the place would have been split up into ‘units’, and sold separately to upwardly mobile folk. Ditto in London, although there would have been some resistance. My son, who lives and paints in Rome, seems to love it, but he does get restless. However eternal, the city is parochial, but the greatest danger to the ancient place are the ghastly tourists. Rome is now like Venice and Florence, its cobbled beautiful streets overrun by sweaty types carrying cameras and backpacks. When Leopold and Debonair Bismarck drove me around in an electric buggy following the lunch, people stared at us as if we were from the century of Saint-Simon and the Sun King. The reason was our clothes. We wore suits and Debbie had a dress on and proper Manolos.
The next day I flew to London for a much-needed rest because the mother of my children’s birthday was being celebrated by Nick Scott, Chantal Hanover and Debbie Bismarck at the Ritz the following day. As we gathered in that beautiful hall, a terrible sight appeared. Bill Clinton in all his oleaginous glory, dressed like a Roman tourist, shaking hands and schmoozing the idiots who stuck out babies for him to hold, while balancing a large cup of Starbucks coffee which he gulped down loudly and often. Never have I seen a less presidential figure (even as a tourist he looked sloppy) but I have to admit one thing. I never thought I’d see the day when I would prefer the greatest liar ever to inhabit the White House to the incumbent.
And while I’m at it, I am about to place a large bet that, following the American mid-term elections, Bush will bomb Iran and use tactical nuclear weapons. In his crazed zeal to install democracy in that part of the world, W. has been convinced by the neocons that he could get the American people behind him if he won a big one. He does not have the men to invade, and, even if he did, another Iraq-like disaster would follow. But tactical nukes would win the day, or so they’ve convinced him. At a meeting last week of neocons in New York, Norman Podhoretz got up to speak and said that the highest authority in the land had assured him that Iran’s nuclear facilities were as good as kaput. The place went wild. I had a friend attending who rang me up with the news. So I will bet that it will happen, especially if the Republicans lose the House and look bad doing it.
So, there you have it. When the Wall came down we thought it was the end of history, but as it turned out it was only the beginning. The Fifth Column, which is made up of neocons in America and Britain, will drag us to war whether we like it or not. Israel’s interests require it, as do the Evangelical Christians who have Bush by the short and curlies. In order to forget my pain, I am giving an elegant bash in London this week, one I hope will be the last ball before the nukes start flying.