My name is Hillaria...

I was wrong. She’s taken Ohio, Texas and Rhode Island. She’s back, like the Terminator, or a bad smell.

The thing is, I actually quite like Hillary, despite describing her first-born as minging for America. It’s a bit like the feeling I have for Gordon Brown, or funnily enough, Jeffrey Archer.

You see, I have a soft spot for soul-eating ambition and delusional hubris. I don’t know what this says about me. But my feeling is, if she wants it so bad, can’t we give it to her?

Given that in America all you need to run is a rictus and a trust fund, surely psychotic ambition can be given its due. In a gladiatoral fight to the death between Hillary and Obama, or Brown and Blair, you know who would pull out the small poisoned knife. “My name is Hillaria Rhodama Clintonia, wife to one President, mother to the next…” It’s all in the eyes, you see.

I don’t know if it’s psychologically healthy to thwart such a desire. Because then you end up with Jeffrey Archer. Or Ross Perot, God love him.

Stop Chelsea

I was in Amsterdam this weekend (it was lovely by the way), and everywhere we went, my partner said, “Here’s some more material for your blog.”

But I don’t want to write about free market prostitution or porn shops or girl-on-dog peep shows. I want to talk about Chelsea Clinton.

Bear with me on this one. Now, I vowed not to mention the H word, and it looks like, bar a miracle this week, I won’t have to. She’ll be dropping out of the race quick smart in order to star in an award-winning documentary about female genital mutilation.

But now there are growing signs that Chelsea might be the Clintons’ next best chance of political success. Put to a side all the weirdly meritocratic thoughts that have bubbled up in your head, like what is it with America and family dynasties. Concentrate on Chelsea.

Chelsea was the person who made every thirteen-year old girl feel like a supermodel. She made adolescence easier, because there was someone out there who had it real hard. Her parents hated each other, her father slept with blowsy babysitters, and her mother looked like she discussed her period with her teacher. And how we laughed, at her and with her, and our cruel teen hearts melted, secretly, at the thought of her misery.

But now the ugly duckling might win the biggest prize of all, and that just isn’t right.

If she becomes President, it will kill the American dream. In teen movies, you take away the glasses and the ponytail, and the prom queen rises like a phoenix from the ashes of the geek. But Chelsea got rid of her afro and specs, and she still looks like shit.

If she wins, it destabilises everything. It means that the fugly girl gets the boy. It means that being the pretty and popular cheerleader is not the root to success. It means that having wealthy and well-connected parents is more important than natural beauty, which although a lottery, is a democratic one. And who wants that?

I can’t give up on my American Dream. So in 2016, I’m going to be supporting the Stop Chelsea ticket. Especially if it includes Jenna Bush and Ross Perot.