Just to let you all know, folks, there's a new(ish) blog dedicated to Sketches from Memory. You'll find some old favourites on there, but over the next few weeks I'll be posting some exclusive content transcribed directly from my not inconsiderably voluminous diaries. In the meantime, here's a hitherto unpublished extract...
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12th November, 1986
"This is bad, Mr President," defence secretary Caspar Weinberger says, decanting a generous shot of Jack Daniels into his morning coffee. "The United States cannot be seen to support terrorism."
"Whoa! Hold your horses there, Cas!" Reagan says, setting down his E.T. and Darth Vader action figures. "You're telling me those guys are terrorists? I thought they were fighting the Russkies for us."
"No, Mr President," I reply. "That's the Mujahideen."
"The Libyans?"
"No," state secretary George Shultz says. "We're fighting the Libyans, sir."
"What about the Argentinians?"
"That was the Brits, Mr President," chief of staff Don Regan says, flashing an awkward look in my direction.
"Four years ago," I mutter under my breath.
"The Iranians?"
"Israel, sir," Weinberger says, setting down his coffee cup in favour of the Jack Daniels bottle. "But that's kinda complicated..."
"Ah!" Reagan says, clicking his fingers. "You're talking about Mickey Hargitay! Oh, I never did like that guy."
"Nicaragua, sir," I reply through gritted teeth. "Yes, that is what we're talking about, Mr President."
"And these guys are fighting the Soviets-?"
"No, Mr President," attorney general Ed Meese sighs. "As we've already established, that's the Mujahideen."
"I thought you said that was the Russkies?"
"The Russians are the Soviets, sir."
"When did this happen?"
"Look, it's pretty straightforward, Mr President," Weinberger says wearily. "We're funding the Contras, a rebel group in Nicaragua, to fight the left-wing Sandinista government in that country with money we got from Israel by selling arms to Iran so they can get our people back from Hezbollah."
"What people, Cas?" Reagan asks, dipping into the bowl of jellybeans on his desk. "And who's this Des Bowler guy?"
Weinberger runs a hand through his hair as Shultz and Meese gesture that it's their turn with the bottle.
"He's the bad guy," I humour him, rolling my eyes in defeat, "and he's taken some of your people hostage. That's what this is all about, and that's why we're in deep shit right now. Okay?"
"Oh, I can't keep up with all this stuff, Rich!" Reagan says, now massacring the crew of the Millennium Falcon with a stapler and some paperclips. "Why can't it be like the old days when it was only the French to worry about?"
"Well, forgive me, Mr President," Meese belches, handing me the bottle of Jack, "the only way out of this mess is to prove to the American people you're not responsible."
"Well that shouldn't be difficult," I smirk, chugging the last of the bourbon.
"Gee, thanks, Rich!" Reagan replies cheerfully. As he starts to hum a particularly muscular rendition of "Let's Get Physical", we agree to convene at 9am the following day to set up a plan of action for Operation Get the President Off the Hook.
We stagger into the White House parking lot, where Meese offers me a lift in his Chrysler. Before I even strap myself in, he floors the gas and we accelerate towards the gate, narrowly avoiding a 1982 Buick coming in the opposite direction. The driver winds down his window to address us.
"Watch where you're going, you fucking lunatics!" National Security Council deputy-director Ollie North yells, waving his fist. "What do you think this is, Libya?!"
Meese hits the brakes and we skid to the side of the road, catching our breath as we watch North flip us the bird in the rear view mirror. I turn to Meese.
"Ed... Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
