Al's Coup; The Big Wiener; Bellevue Community Service; Mockney Fools

Mockney Fools I've just reread The Pump House Gang, Tom Wolfe's second collection of journalism, and was struck by how little has changed since it was published 32 years ago. His primary interest?then as now?was in the constantly evolving "statuspheres" that exist in the world's great cities, and the inevitable clashes between them. Interestingly, he doesn't distinguish between Los Angeles, New York and London: in all three cities, the struggle for recognition is paramount. When I first read the pieces that deal with London, I thought he'd got a few things wrong. I don't just mean the little things, like calling Cheltenham Ladies College "Cheltenham Ladies' School." I mean the way he depicts Londoners as being incredibly class-conscious. To my mind, that was an exaggeration.

Wolfe's chief hallmark as a writer is his obsession with status. In his narrow-eyed view, the pursuit of status in whatever form?power, money, fame?is what defines us as human beings. Insofar as his subjects have inner lives, they're continually running interior monologues on their places in the food chain. For Wolfe, status-consciousness and consciousness are one and the same thing.

Now, I used to think that this was all very well when he was writing about New Yorkers?they really are that status-obsessed?but when he turned his gaze on London it resulted in rather a blinkered view. I told myself that we Brits don't suffer from the same degree of status anxiety as you Americans; we're a little more socially secure. The fact that social position in Britain is so bound up with class means we're less preoccupied with it. Status is the result of an accident of birth, so why waste time thinking about it? Either you're born with it or you're not, in which case there's not a lot you can do.

Well, that was my view until I returned to London last February. Now I'm not so sure. Nine months after moving back, I'm beginning to think Wolfe got us bang to rights after all. Londoners are every bit as status-conscious as New Yorkers.

London is currently in the grip of nostalgie de la boue, which Wolfe defined as "a longing to recapture the raw and elemental vitality of the lower orders" in "Tom Wolfe's New Book of Etiquette." He discussed it in relation to New York in the 60s, but nostalgie de la boue was originally a feature of London in the Regency period. According to Wolfe, aristocrats would adopt the manners and dress of the lower orders to distinguish themselves from bourgeois arrivistes. Being less confident of their status, the arrivistes would never dare impersonate anyone lower down the food chain in case they were mistaken for them.

In contemporary London, by contrast, nostalgie de la boue is a way for everyone, from the upper middle-classes on downward, to express their contempt for the aristocracy. Almost no one under 30 speaks with an old-fashioned BBC accent anymore because to do so is to risk being perceived as "posh." They all speak with Cockney accents. These days, it's better to be thought of as a member of Fagin's gang than a gentleman's club.

The chief offender is a twentysomething celebrity chef called Jamie Oliver. I don't have the space here to do justice to the full horror of this professional Cockney, but beneath his carefully honed persona as a "pukka" street urchin, he's a cutthroat opportunist. In addition to a popular show called The Naked Chef (now exported to you, I understand), he's published two bestsellers and, according to a report in The Mail on Sunday, is among the highest-earners in the country. His most recent bestseller, The Return of the Naked Chef, is dedicated to "my missus"?a gorgeous model, naturally?and the first word of the book is "Blimey." In the introduction he brags about being invited to cook for Tony Blair and the Italian prime minister at 10 Downing Street, no less.

Now, inverted snobbery doesn't necessarily lead to class-consciousness. If being authentically working-class were the crucial factor in determining your status, there wouldn't be much point in fretting about it. Either you're the real McCoy or you're not. Most of the under-30s in London who speak with Cockney accents are complete frauds?they're what are referred to as "Mockneys." Jamie Oliver is the London equivalent of Puff Daddy, posing as a member of the underclass while raking in the cash. His accent is no more authentic than Tony Blair's was when he appeared on Question Time, a BBC gabfest, and adopted the vowel sounds and guttural stops of what's known as "Estuary English."

The reason Britain's suffering from an outbreak of class-consciousness, then, is because people's actual class?the class they were born into?has become largely irrelevant; it's the class people pretend to have been born into that matters. If you can persuade people that you're a horny-handed son of toil, you can claw your way to the top, as Jamie Oliver has done. Class is still as important as it's always been, but it's also a completely flexible commodity that you can manipulate to your own advantage. Who knows, maybe a group of genuine Cockneys will take a leaf out of the Regency aristocracy's book and start impersonating the old landed gentry, secure in the knowledge that no "Mockney" would ever dare do something so "upwardly mobile." Tom Wolfe, if you're reading this, I think it's time you paid us another visit.

Classicus Feature Does Size Matter? There has been an hilarious exchange recently in the letters columns of the Spectator, England's most elegantly written magazine, concerning the size of the erect sexual organ on Porfirio Rubirosa, the late Dominican playboy and legendary lover. It all started with columnist Petronella Wyatt speculating (Oct. 14) as to who the greatest lover of modern times might have been: Rubirosa, Errol Flynn, Ali Khan or Douglas Fairbanks Jr. In the letters column of the very next issue, Susan Crosland, Baltimore-born British journalist and wife of a late Labor MP and government minister, weighed in with what, presumably, she supposed to be a disparaging anecdote about Rubi. Her acquaintance with him, she wrote, consisted of an interview for the Sunday Express conducted over lunch in his room in the Savoy Hotel, London. Let's hear her tell it: "At its completion, I retired to the bathroom to freshen up. On emerging I encountered a grinning Mr. Rubirosa in his boxer-shorts, through which stood a donkey-style member. He threw me on his unmade bed, and a wrestling match ensued as this grotesque thing swung about. Being a self-reliant American, I extracted myself unscathed, picked up my notes, and made my departure. Adding to the absurdity was the neat little P.R. embroidered on his underpants."

Grotesque? Unscathed? Here's the opportunity of a lifetime to get under one of the legendary lovers of modern times, and she beats it out the door! What have they taken out of the water in Baltimore since little Wallis Warfield made a king give up his throne for her sexual ministrations? Does the incident highlight a basic difference between the sexes? Let's imagine the situation in reverse, if Taki were to write: "My acquaintance with Elizabeth Taylor consisted of an interview conducted in her room at the Plaza. At its conclusion, Miss Taylor retired to the bathroom to freshen up. After a few minutes she emerged in a peignoir, which she opened to reveal a pubic tress which hung dankly halfway to her knees like the mane on an orangutan. She threw me on her unmade bed, and a wrestling match ensued in which she tried to draw me into her nether jungle. Being a self-reliant, poor little Greek boy, I extracted myself unscathed, picked up my pencils and made my departure. Adding to the absurdity was the neat little E.T. embroidered on her negligee."

Pretty unlikely, think you not? Taki, one supposes, would have torn off her nightie and given her a gamahuching that would require the gifts of Henry Miller to describe. Anyhow, the next installment in the Spectator is a letter from Christopher Wilson, who writes (Nov. 4) that he is working on a biography of Rubirosa and is not surprised that Susan Crosland hightailed it out of Rubi's room. He has it on no less an authority than Rubi's third wife that his "point of issue" with Mrs. Crosland was 11 inches long in the turgid state. Holy smoke! Eleven inches is just one inch short of the height of a San Pellegrino bottle?Fatty Arbuckle, where are you?

But let's look at the situation from Mrs. Crosland's point of view. Perhaps having her kidneys stabbed by an 11-incher is not a lady's idea of bliss. According to The Sexual Anatomy of Women website (http://www.halcyon.com/elf/ altsex/vulva), the average vaginal canal is 3 inches long, possibly 4 in women who have given birth. "This may seem short in relation to the penis, but during sexual arousal the cervix will lift upwards, and the fornix may extend upwards into the body as long as necessary to receive the penis." Maybe, but "as long as necessary" seems a bit of a stretch when you're talking about Rubi. It still seems like he would be trying to park a 747 in a one-car garage. And how about clitoral stimulation, presumably one of the keys to sexual pleasure for the woman? This is normally done by the base of the penis. But, with Rubi (assuming the missionary position), the base of his unit is halfway across the room. He probably can't get close enough to give his lover a kiss. Edward Eichel and Philip Nobile, in The Perfect Fit (1990), say that "compared to other primates, the human male is extraordinarily well endowed, dwarfing monkeys, gorillas, and chimps in the penis department." What, according to the scholars, is the evolutionary advantage of a big wiener? Answer: to deliver ejaculate as close as possible to the ovum, in the shortest time. Says Robert Smith, in Sperm Competition and the Evolution of Animal Mating Systems (1984), a shorty penis "would obviously place its owner's ejaculate at a disadvantage in competition with those deposited by a longer organ." In other words, quick and to the point.

Is this the way you like it, ladies? How about this for a new theory? Should not a lady interested in a vigorous and energetic child choose to mate with a man with a shorter than average penis? That way, she could give the spermatozoa a chance to compete over a decent distance, like classic racehorses.

In Why Is Sex Fun, Prof. Jared Diamond says that women tend to report that the sight of a penis is, if anything, unattractive. Instead, he writes, "The ones who are really fascinated by the penis and its dimensions are men." The big wiener has served the evolutionary purpose of impressing the other guys to establish dominance over them. Maybe even admiration and adulation?"I've got one like a kielbasa, sweetheart, and if you don't like it, I know a fella who does!"

Taki LE MAÎTRE Coup D'etat In the summer of 1948, an American by the name Bob Falkenburg won the Wimbledon singles title by beating the Australian John Bromwich. The score was 7-5, 0-6, 6-2, 3-6, 7-5. Although heartbroken, Bromwich congratulated the winner in a graceful manner and announced that the best man had won. The fact that Bromwich had won 24 games overall, whereas the winner had won 23, was not mentioned. Falkenburg had throughout his career suffered from a lack of stamina, and used to dump a set or two when he was up in order to recover. But the rules were rules. The fifth and deciding set was Falkenburg's, and although Bromwich could have mentioned that he had won more games ("We won the popular vote") he was first and foremost a sportsman and a gentleman. Switch to Al Gore, hardly a gent, but a phony tough guy, a crybaby who has convinced the American public he plays for keeps because he believes in democracy. I wonder what he would have said in the post-match press conference if he had been in Bromwich's shoes. "I won more games, and for the sake of the sport and in the name of fairness, I say I am the Wimbledon champion." Better yet, as William F. Buckley Jr. has pointed out, athletes have lost by one-thousandth of a second and have not appealed or proclaimed themselves the winner.

As I write (Friday, Dec. 1), no one knows what the future holds. What we do know is that Gore, a compulsively mendacious man, has told too many glib and audacious lies. And he has broken too many rules?and laws. Like his boss, he has acted as if he could talk and maneuver his way out of any jam he got himself into. Even losing an election. Power is his aphrodisiac, and power nowadays is available to anyone with the ambition and skill to seize it. Look what the promise of power has done to Joe Lieberman.

Alas, with a teacher like Clinton, things are bound to get worse. The Draft Dodger's chief accomplishment has been to bring a new level of degeneracy to the presidency. Clinton forced the Democrats to defend him against removal from office, thus exposing the cynicism of Washington. Let's face it. One can be a roaring liberal or an archconservative, but Clinton should have been removed from office just for the measures he took to conceal his shameless behavior?the measures for which he was impeached. He not only openly lied to the people, he perjured himself under oath, helped through his surrogates to spread slanders against Kenneth Starr and Republican members of the House Judiciary Committee, and got away with it.

Getting away with it is what it's all about. Clinton, Gore and the Democrats have clung to power by unabashedly playing the race card. Jesse Jackson calls Palm Beach Selma. Mr. "Hymietown" speaks to the "sons and daughters of slavery and Holocaust survivors," asking them to stand together or perish alone. The overheated rhetoric is nothing new. Clinton, Carville, Sid the Scumbag Blumenthal and various other smiling wallet-lifters perfected the art ever since the Draft Dodger came to power.

Gore will twist and bend the law to achieve advantage, and to hell with the country. As the tendentious as well as mendacious New York Times has reported, "Gore frequently talks about politics in terms of good and evil, seeing his whole career as something of a moral crusade." Some morality; some crusade. Here's someone who claimed to have seen combat, who did nothing of the sort; a man who invented the you-know-what; a compulsive liar who invents things about himself not even Clinton would dare do, and the Times reports such drivel without tongue in cheek.

Mind you, what's the difference between "I didn't inhale" and "I invented the Internet"? What's the difference between claiming to have fought in Vietnam and "I did not have sexual relations with that woman"? It's not the lies alone that make Clinton and Gore so revolting. It's the posturing. No matter how many times their lies have been exposed, they're soon back at it, lip-biting and finger-wagging, their voices cracking with sincerity.

The Clinton-Gore crowd have stormed the culture from within, and have managed to lower it to their moral level. This ethical decline will one day be the cause of the collapse of the American empire. Every cliche I can think of fits: The fish smells from the head down. The rot comes from within. People get the kind of government they deserve.

Well, here I disagree. The American people deserve much better. Most of this great country is overwhelmingly for Bush. Just look at the map. Most of it is red, and only the West Coast and Northeast, and some urban centers in the middle, are painted blue. As Paul Craig Roberts pointed out, "More than an election is being stolen. Our country is being stolen." Geographically, Gore only carried one-sixth of the country. Five-sixths rejected him and his corrupt party. But because of the population density of urban areas, Gore's numbers improve dramatically. In other words, a few high-density urban areas where new immigrants and racial minorities constitute a high percentage of the population decide which way this country is going.

Voices contrary to this coup d'etat by minorities have been effectively silenced by political correctness. Democrats favor open borders because every single Third World immigrant is bound to vote a straight Democratic ticket. Third World immigrants understand only one thing. The government controls one's life, and if one plays ball, there is enrichment and privilege. This is what Gore and the Democrats are offering?at the taxpayers' expense, needless to say. Wake up, America. You have nothing to lose but your freedom.

George Szamuely The Bunker Community Service Last June 12 I was at Manhattan Criminal Court entering a guilty plea to the charge of "petit larceny." I was fined $4000 and sentenced to 200 hours of community service. This was a deal worked out in advance by my attorney and the District Attorney's office. Four thousand dollars is not a huge sum of money, but it was well beyond my limited resources. With jail time looming as a distinct possibility, my friend Taki was forced to step in to help me out. In the end, it was not a bad outcome. I have a criminal record now, but "petit larceny" is a misdemeanor, not a felony. As for the 200 hours of community service, that did not sound especially burdensome. I was sure to be done with it by the time of my next court date in September.

There was one problem, though. I had to find the nonprofit institution for which I would work by myself. Naturally, I thought of the most interesting places first. What about the museums? I called MOMA. They were not looking for volunteers. I called the Metropolitan. They welcomed volunteer applications. But there were no openings at present. Perhaps in a couple of months. That was no good. How would I explain to the judge why I had put in so few hours? That I was waiting for an interesting job to turn up? I could imagine the response: "Community service is supposed to be punishment, not a source of enjoyment."

So museums were out. What about helping children? I called a few places. There was a possibility of tutorial work. But that would only be, at most, two hours a week. One day I passed a local community center. I went in and asked to see the volunteer coordinator. "Yes, there is work to be done here," she explained. "Cleaning out the swimming pool. Cleaning out the toilets. Does that sound interesting?" "Well, can I get back to you on that?"

With the September court date now looming, I was getting desperate. Then someone suggested I apply to a hospital. I made an appointment at Bellevue and was offered the position of "friendly visitor." My job, it turned out, would be to visit patients and chat with them. Afterward I was to write short reports about the people I visited. "Write what exactly?" I asked my immediate supervisor. "What do I know about their medical condition?" "You don't have to worry about that," she responded. "You just write about how they feel and what they talk about."

Still somewhat baffled, I showed up on my first day expecting to be issued a list of patients to see. Instead, my supervisor left a note, informing me that she was not in and would not be in for a week. She told me report to the nurses' stations and ask to see patients.

I did, only to encounter the incredulous stares of the nurses. Why do you want to see the patients, they asked a little suspiciously. "Because I'm a friendly visitor. I'm here to chat with them." I was given a few names, along with the bed numbers where they could be found. One was asleep. One could not speak a word of English. And a third was far too sick to see anyone. Back to the nurses' station to ask for a few more names. The next batch was no better. One was with his family. Another seemed to be on medication, for he was mumbling gibberish. A third wanted to know why I was so anxious to talk to him. "I'm a friendly visitor, here to help make you feel better," I replied, trying to adopt the cheerful, upbeat tone of the professional hospital worker. Without a word he returned to his tv. I tried to engage him in conversation, but he was not interested. I had only been in for half an hour and had already worked my way through six patients.

I was now in a quandary. I could go back to the nurses and ask for more names. But I did not want to annoy them. They, unlike me, had real jobs to do. I could go home. But my shift was supposed to last three hours. So I opted to patrol the corridors in the hope of finding a patient who appeared to be well enough to speak, and speak in English.

Soon I felt like some kind of a predator pouncing on poor, unsuspecting sick people?who would much rather watch television than talk to a complete stranger?just so that I could get my community service time done. Twice a week I would go through the same routine. It got to the point that I was happy if I could sit with a patient and watch Judge Judy with him. After about three weeks the head of the volunteers' department left a message asking me to call her back immediately. She had just returned from her vacation and she sounded annoyed. Was she appalled by my inane reports? Had the nurses complained that I was a nuisance? Was I depressing the patients, rather than cheering them up?

No, she was agitated that I was signing in and out at the hospital front desk, not at the volunteers' office. She needed to keep track of my movements, she told me. Why I could not fathom. She had no dealings with the court. Evidently she suspected that I was not putting in the hours I claimed to be putting in. As a matter of fact, I had been scrupulously honest. But this was the last straw. It was time to move on. As the September court date drew near, I rehearsed in my mind the excuses I would offer the judge as to why I had fallen so woefully short of the 200 hours. The judge was not very interested, and merely set another court date for December.