Ferguson - American on purpose: the improbable adventures of an unlikely patriot

A Seat at the Table

Frank Sinatra and Elizabeth Taylor

The Attic

Astronaut

James the First

Brick House

Satori in Long Island

Running the Gauntlet

Eldorado

The Filth and the Fury

The Real World

Love and Sex

Dreamboy

Art School

A Clever and Patient Monster

Tripping

Anne

New York

Adventures in the Big City

Setting the Tone

The Gong Show

The Rise of (Bing) Hitler

Edinburgh, 1986

On the Train

Jimmys Wedding

The Aspirations of a Phony Englishman

The End of Daze

Rehab

Reboot

Buying a Knife

Providence

Scottish Women

Dudley and Jadis

The Aspirations of a Phony Frenchman

The Fat Man, the Gay Man, Vampires, and Marriage

America the Beautiful

Success and Failure

Father

Crash

Between the Bridge and the River

Latecomer

Riding the Pass

Feeding the Beast

Settling Down

American on Purpose

O ne of the greatest moments in American sports history was provided by Bobby Thomson, the Staten Island Scot. Born in my hometown of Glasgow, Scotland, in 1923, he hit the shot heard round the world that won the Giants the National League pennant in 1951. Had Bobby stayed in Glasgow he would never have played baseball, he would never have faced the fearsome Brooklyn Dodgers pitcher Ralph Branca in that championship game, and he would never have learned that if you can hit the ball three times out of ten youll make it to the Hall of Fame.

Today I watch my son at Little League games, his freckled Scottish face squinting in the California sunshine, the bat held high on his shoulder, waiting for his moment, and I rejoice that he loves this most American game. He will know from an early age that failure is not disgrace. Its just a pitch that you missed, and youd better get ready for the next one. The next one might be the shot heard round the world. My son and I are Americans, we prepare for glory by failing until we dont.

I wish Id known all this earlier. It would have saved me a lot of trouble.

In order to write this book I reached into the darkness for my past and found to my surprise that most of it was still there, just as I had left it. Some of it, though, had grown and morphed into what now appears to be hideous and reprehensible selfishness. Some of it had crumbled into the ruins of former shame.

This is not journalism. This is just my story. There are bound to be some lies here, but Ive been telling them so long theyve become truth, my truth, as close as I can get to what really happened. I left some tales out because to tell them would be excessively cruel to people who probably dont deserve it, and altered a few names for the same reason, but I believe I spared myself no blushes.

I didnt flee a dictator or swim an ocean to be an American like some do. I just thought long and hard about it.

I looked at the evidence of my life and gratefully signed up.

I see England, I see France, I see the first ladys underpants.

Shut up, hissed Megan. I wish I had never pointed it out. She was giggling so hard her wine squirted out of her nose, and anyway it was true. Laura Bush, the congenial Texan wife of George, the forty-third and arguably least popular president in the history of the United States of America, had just entered the room, her affable spouse by her side. They were graciously acknowledging the fawning Washington toadies who milled around them, smiling and shaking hands and kissing cheeks. Mrs. Bush was wearing an elegant silky frock, but when she stood with the light behind her you could see her undies. Big, comfortable knickers, what are known in enlightened circles as passion killers , in what looked like a floral pattern. Ideal for a long night of smiling and nodding and being a good sport at the annual press, showbiz, and politics bunfight that is the White House Correspondents Association Dinner.

I was there in my capacity as vulgar lounge entertainer. Megan, my date, was there because she loves me and was proving it again. I had been asked to be the guest speaker by the chair of the entertainment committee. I wasnt their first choice, but after Steve Carell and Ellen DeGeneres turned the gig down I think I became a little more appealing. I might be a C-lister, but I was obtainable, willing, and cheap.

I understand why Ellen and Steve said no, since this is, without doubt, one of the most intimidating and difficult jobs available to a comedian. And there were other reasons why I too should have politely declined. First of all there was the events recent history. Two years before, Stephen Colbert had performed there and, depending on who you talk to, had either died the worst death ever seen by a comic in the history of comedy and death, or had delivered the most fearless piece of political satire this country has ever seen.

The year after, in an attempt to avoid any repetition of the controversy the WHCA had hired the antediluvian Canadian impressionist Rich Little, who most recently achieved fame in the 1970s with his Richard Nixon impersonation, to be the after-dinner speaker. Little had definitely bombed (no debate needed) in a buttock-clenchingly awkward manner; his material was too archaic and meek for the bloodthirsty crowd.

I also should have said no because its the granddaddy of all corporate events, a large dinner in a hotel ballroom where everyone who is there secretly hates and wishes misfortune on everyone else. This is not an atmosphere in which comedy usually flourishes, although having lived in Hollywood for fifteen years, Im used to it.

I should have said no because the sound system in the hotel was so awful it was impossible for anyone in the first two rows of tables to understand what was being said, Scottish accent or not.

But I didnt say no. I didnt say no because between safety and adventure I choose adventure. Plus, I thought it would be great crack, getting to meet all these muckety-mucks, and, truthfully, as a new American I felt it would somehow be unpatriotic to refuse a chance to make a fool of myself in front of the president, who, after all, had no problem doing exactly that in front of the entire world.

It certainly was an impressive and eclectic guest list, with Salman Rushdie, Condoleezza Rice, and Christiane Amanpour sharing warm chicken cutlets with Pamela Anderson and the Jonas Brothers as they sat around the big circular tables. It was such an unlikely collection of people that it actually felt like a dream. So much so, that more than once I checked to see if I was wearing pants, something I often do, just in case. With a past like mine its never a bad idea.

Before the meal there had been a little reception backstage for the people who would be seated on the dais, and their partners, although the only spouses at the head table would be the comfortably arsed Mrs. Bush and Mrs. Cheney, wife to Dirty Dick.

It was a chance for everyone to meet and have a chat before we would go out on the stage and sit in a line like that last supper painting.

Anne Compton, the WHCA committee chairman, took charge and whisked Megan and me around the room, introducing us to the other honored guests. We met the diminutive and sassy White House press secretary, Dana Perino, who revealed to me that she was married to a Scotsman and I said that would explain why she was crazy. She laughed. I think she thought I was kidding.