The truth about Bush

“Washington, more than any other city in the world, swarms with simple-minded exhibitions of human nature; men and women curiously out of place, whom it would be cruel to ridicule and ridiculous to weep over.” (Henry Adams, Democracy)

It’s not every day you get a call from a commercial radio station asking you to rap a passage from an 19th century novel live on air. When my chance came, I took it. The prize: two tickets to America’s capital. One for me and one for my teddy-bear.

And so it passed that I found myself paddling up the Potomac, cruising down Constitution Avenue, and gliding through the doors of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, frayed Oxford notepad at the ready, chewed BIC biros lining my pockets, and a plastic smile etched on my face that’d make Julia Roberts proud.

I never refuse a trip to Washington, D.C. There’s a buzz about the town that’s more infectious than a puss-filled boil, and similarly grotesque. In the last few decades the balance of power may have decisively shifted to Wall Street, Silicon Valley and the plains of Texas, but Washington, I insist, remains the only place to filibuster.

It’s also the only place to get an inside scoop on the world’s most powerful grammar bungler. I’d booked a little tête-à-tête with the President’s right-hand man.

“Well, I’ll be darned. If it ain’t The Artful Dodger of Taxes,” said “Big” Buck Spender III, slapping me across the face with a meaty paw.

“Steady on, Buck,” I said with a grimace, clinging like a cat to Teddy Roosevelt’s head. “There’s no mileage thumping your biggest fan into the bust of a dead president.”

“Better than thumping your butt into the bust of a future president,” Buck volunteered, scowling as Hillary Clinton breezed past in flats. “So, tell me, you English fruit, picked a public pocket or two recently? Or are you too busy beating around the Bush with those liberal losers you hang with?”

“How’s that?” I grinned as the White House lobby started to fill with engrossed onlookers egging us on. “I’m no Bush-beater. And my untiring dedication to honest public service is legendary. Is it my fault if the public always leaves its purse unguarded?”

We guffawed and improvised a secret handshake.

“I see you’ve also evaded the slammer,” I said as we made haste à la The West Wing to Buck’s office.

“Clean as a whistle,” he winked. “You know me.”

If I did, I’d no memory of it. I’d come to the seat of the Empire to talk to Buck about the Prez. Buck and Bush went way back. Played football together at Yale and then for the Air National Guard. Buck was Bush’s tight end, or so I’d heard. Bush was Buck’s cheerleader. They were an unbeatable pair – until they stepped onto the field.

In 1994, Buck got a call from his old pom-pom partner. “I want you to come advise with me,” Bush’d said. “I won’t take no for a question. My mind’s made up – like my knowledge.”

Buck, who’d been moonlighting as a fry cook at Wendy’s, jumped at the chance, pulling a hamstring. Two months later, after intensive treatment, he was in the Governor’s mansion teaching his new boss how to cheat at scrabble. “Make up words,” he whispered in Bush’s ear. “No one will know the difference.”

“The next thing I knew,” Buck chuckled, offering me a seat in his office, “I’m in the White House.”

“Talking to me,” I said, settling my buttocks into the cowhide.

“Right. Talking to you. So, what can I do for you, Art?”

I mulled it over. “Offer me an enormous bribe so that I write a favourable piece.”

He laughed. I laughed. We both laughed. I had my hand out the whole time.

“The days of Federal corruption are lone gone, boy,” he said, leaning back in his chair and staring at the chandelier above our heads. “You’ve got the wrong president.”

“So has your country,” I almost said, but bit my tongue.

“Come on, kid, spit it out! I haven’t got all hour.”

I checked my notes. “Thwell, thwot I thwont thoo athk ith: thdo thyou think the Prethident hath a chanth of thwinning thin Novembther.”

“The President is a born winner,” Buck said, looking at me curiously. “I can’t see him losing.”

“But can you imagine it?” I said, receiving the same answer. “OK. Fine. So, tell me, Buck, what is it about the President that so appeals on the stump?”

“I’d say it’s his mind,” Buck said, almost flooring me. “The boy thinks and speaks like the average Joe. He’s a natural.”

“They said the same about Clinton”, I said.

Buck ignored my point. “The President has the common touch.”

“He doesn’t wash his hands?”

“Folks respond to him like flies on a cow turd.”

My biro exploded in my mouth. “How apt.”

“George W Bush is the Wal-Mart, the Bud Light, the Dunkin’ Donut of presidential candidates. The man is to politics what Tom Landry is to football.”

“Dead?”

“A legend. A man who tears up the playbook, rewrites the rules, and takes America’s Team to trophy loads of world championships.”

“Sorry?”

“He tackles hard. He never apologises. He never wavers, concedes to facts, or thinks. He just blitzes – and does leg-kicks.”

“Live by the blitz, die by the blitz,” I reflected.

“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink,” Buck replied.

I shrugged. “Let Washington in Potomac melt.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “Are you wearing lipstick?”

“It’s the biro,” I blushed. “You were saying about Bush?”

“That he’s bigger than democracy. Like a Roman general – a colossus who stands astride continents.”

“So you can see up his toga?”

“Bush is Nero: he doesn’t compromise on his single-mindedness. His doctrine is simple: right or wrong, he’ll stick to his guns, see a policy through to the end…”

“… burn a few cities.”

“Right. He doesn’t listen to critics. He ignores advice. He won’t tolerate bad news – unless it reinforces his point. He’s an optimist.”

“So was I, ‘til I walked in here.”

“Bush keeps the American voter happy. Throws ‘em a scrap of meat every once in a while. Gives ‘em bread and circuses.”

“Mais, sans le pain!” I interjected.

“Compassionate conservatism,” Buck nodded, looking immensely pleased with himself. “Now get the hell outta my office, you loser. I’ve got some serious journalists to talk to.”

“You know what, Buck buddy?” I said, pocketing a souvenir as I turned to leave. “I think you and your cheerleader might just be a winning team.”

In the taxi to the airport I did some thinking as I read the headline of the Beltway Bulletin: “A Prez who’s always ready for biz”. The story was remarkably balanced: “The super-fit Bush has the planet’s most finely-tuned nostril hair – the moment there’s a whiff of liberty in the air, he’s out there sniffing it.”

I’m not one to brag, but every prediction I’ve made about this electoral contest has been smack bang on the money. Last month, I wrote the political obituary of John Kerry (Bush’s ninth cousin, twice removed) after he bounced an embarrassingly limp-wristed pitch at Fenway and referred to the hallowed turf of Packer country as “Lambert Field”. Since making these jockular faux pas, the guy’s disappeared off the radar.

This is Bush’s election to lose. The question is: what will he do if he wins? Flying over the White House, a super-size bag of pretzels in my lap, I pressed my ear to the window. I swear I could almost hear the President’s brain whirring.

Almost.