London
THE BE-WIGGED AND BE-GOWNED lord chancellor of Great Britain welcomed Bill Clinton to a joint session of the House of Commons and the House of Lords last week with the words, “We share so much.” Perhaps a bit too much. For until very recently, Britain had avoided two American ailments that now afflict it — call them “Oprah-itis” and “out-yearism.”
Oprah-itis hit two weeks ago, when over 20 million of the nation’s households tuned in to Princess Diana’s opening round in a battle for divorce terms that will give her the house (actually, a palace), the kids, the car, the money, and a title — a settlement so rich as to turn Ivana Trump green with envy. The Princess of Wales took her campaign to the public by means of a BBC interview and shared with one and all the deep psychic scars she suffered at the hands of the Germanically cold British royal family and her unfaithful husband. She was thus importing a great American technique probably invented by Richard Nixon (remember the Checkers speech?); refined by Teddy Kennedy ( remember the “I tried to save Mary Jo before swimming off for a good night’s sleep” speech?); and brought to full flower by Oprah Winfrey’s dysfunctional guests, with no claim to fame other than their emotional disorders.
Di’s story goes something like this: I have suffered at the hands of a cruel family and, even, of an adoring but demanding media. Therefore, I developed strange psychic ailments. But now I am strong, the stronger for having told millions just how much I suffered and just how strong I now am.
In days gone by, discretion on the part of the British royal family and a judicious turning of a blind eye by the public permitted kings and princes the best of two worlds: a proper wife and a satisfying mistress. So pervasive was the practice that a royal without a “bit on the side” was liable to have his masculinity questioned by his inner circle.
This circumstance the royal wife endured uncomplainingly. At least in public. There were, after all, all those jewels, and carriages, and fawning courtiers by way of compensation — plus, perhaps, a quiet bit of reciprocal cheating to help pass Britain’s long winter nights.
Indeed, the relationship between mistress-of-the-palace and mistress-to-the- king was often quite cordial, the former perhaps feeling relieved of an obligation in the days when sexual enjoyment was often a male prerogative. Thus, when King Edward VII was on the verge of meeting his Maker, Queen Alexandra invited Mrs. Keppel, his long-time mistress, to the dying king’s bedside for a fond farewell. No radio broadcasts to share the hurt with her subjects; no threats to bring down the monarchy; instead, the dignity that privacy provides.
Now, ironically, all is changed. In Britain, where discretion was once valued , we have Princess Di telling of her adulterous adventures, her bulimia, her se lf-inflicted wounds, and her depression. But in America, the land of Oprah Winf rey, Geraldo Rivera, and Ricki Lake, we have retained high-level discretion. We ndell Willkie’s wife reportedly uttered not a word when her husband chose to an nounce his presidential candidacy from the sitting room of hi s mistress. Franklin Roosevelt’s vigorous extramarital life is now widely known and chronicled, but Eleanor Roosevelt never thought to summon the nation to a fire-side chat to discuss the matter. Jack Kennedy’s philanderings were of such epic proportions that they rivaled even those of his father, yet Jackie nursed her wounds in private. And when Bill Clinton stood accused of several dalliances by more witnesses than it takes to make the average charge of sexual harassment stand up, and by a few miles of audio tape, Hillary Clinton swallowed hard and stood by her man, reserving her own television interview for the less soul-searing chore of explaining that she really doesn’t understand Arkansas real estate and was merely lucky in her dealings on the Chicago commodities market.
In short, wives of America’s elected elite are now so suffused with English reticence as to refrain from engaging in public Di-atribes when betrayed by their husbands. Britain’s hereditary elite, however, is now taken with the peculiarly American notion that in public bleating lies solace. Conveniently, they blame it on the media, which do indeed use the likes of Diana to sell newspapers and round up television audiences.
But, in the process, the media in turn are used by the princess to whip up sympathy for what she sees as her plight — all alone in Kensington Palace, with only a large staff to see to her needs; a wardrobe that could clothe and, if sold, feed all of the Third World countries with which she so sympathizes; and, if it suits her, “an occasional man,” to borrow the words of an old popular song.
Which brings us to the second American disease that crossed the ocean last week, “out-year-ism.” In the ongoing battle to balance the budget, those two warring sons of the South, Bill Clinton and Newt Gingrich, have agreed on one thing: The budget should be balanced in seven years. Well, maybe: Leon Panetta decided that eight years would be fine while the ink was still wet on the seven-year agreement. No matter.
It is the so-called “out-years” that matter — years that are further off than the next election, too distant for the voters to notice, or outside of the seven-year limit.
In the case of the budget, those are the years in which the program cuts will really be felt, in which tax revenues are forecast to reach levels high enough to cover the government’s inexorably growing outlays, and, in the out- out-years, in which the budget will once again lurch into deficit.
This process of producing a balanced budget by promising to cut expenses ( later) and by forecasting large increases in revenue (later) has until now been considered a peculiarly American bit of dissimulation, arising from the division of power between Congress and the president. The former must initiate money measures, but the latter can veto them. Unless Congress overrides the presidential veto, a deal must be concocted. And then papered over to make it palatable to a justly suspicious electorate. Out-year-ism is the camouflage of choice.
Contrast our process with Britain’s. The party that controls the House of Commons also controls the executive. More accurately, there is no real distinction between the legislature and those of its members who make up the cabinet. So when the British chancellor — rotund, folksy, Hush-Puppied Ken Clarke — delivered his budget on the day before the president arrived, he knew in advance that he would carry the day. No need to deceive.
The Americans who flew in with Clinton’s advance party, and heard the chancellor, must have been amazed at three things. First, the budget address lasted one hour and seven minutes, about in line with the length of a state-of- the-union peroration by Bill Clinton. But there was no criticism of Clarke for running on. Only relief: In 1853, Gladstone spoke for five hours.
Second, it is the prerogative of a chancellor to indulge in a drink of his choice during his speech.
Clarke chose whiskey, which he sipped from time to time, most notably after announcing a reduction in taxes on the product of one of Britain’s most powerful lobbies, the Scotch whiskey industry. If only” Treasury Secretary Robert Rubin were free to sip away during his press conferences. We might, then, be spared idle threats of default: in vino veritas.
Finally, Clinton’s advance team couldn’t help noticing that Clarke announced various tax changes, such as a 15-pence rise in the tax on a packet of cigarettes, “effective 6:00 p.m. this evening.” No committee hearings; no bargaining; no legislative gantlet to run.
And no delays until the public might become aware of the Americanization of Britain’s budget process. For Clarke promised to: Cut public spending — later. Bring government’s claim on the country’s GDP down to 40 percent — someday. Cut the deficit with revenues forecast to flow from a projected increase in Britain’s growth rate — next year.
American out-year-ism has arrived in Britain. Along with Oprah-itis. Let’s hope the “special relationship” between America and her mother country, so eloquently brought to life by President Clinton in his address to Parliament, survives Britain’s discovery of what we have inflicted upon her.
Irwin M. Stelzer is director of regulatory policy studies at the American Enterprise Institute.
