Low life
Going bust
Jeffrey Bernard
It seems strangely apposite. that on the day the editor asked me to turn my attention to the low life' I should be informed by post that there was a warrant out for my arrest. (At the time of writing, I have two days in which to surrender myself to the court and beg for bail and time.) But what is a little more than a nuisance is that I should incur the only debt a man may be imprisoned for except for non-payment of maintenance, to wit, non-payment of rates. Now, like the drowning man whose past floats before his eyes, I find myself reflecting on just how I got into this mess. Incidentally, I don't for one minute believe that a drowning man hears the school bell ring for prep, the bell ring for last orders or the church bell ring for his wedding. I believe that a drowning man thinks, 'Christ almighty, I'm drowning.' But that's by the by and I'll report more fully on the subject after I have very nearly drowned which I probably will at some point. Anyway, what was I saying? Yes, how did I get into this mess?
Well for one thing I can't entirely discount hereditary factors. My mother wasn't just an opera singer, she was a positive prima donna of the county courts. One of my most treasured memories of her is of a stunning
performance she gave during the war when she appeared in court for failing to keep up with a hire-purchase order. She'd got something in the Sheraton or Chippendale line — she thought big but daintily — and owed payments. In a verbal slogging match with the prosecuting counsel she was well ahead on points when the judge interrupted to tell her, 'If you continue to speak like that, Mrs Bernard, I shall have to commit you for contempt of court.' She directed her attention to him and replied, 'Make it utter contempt.' After the applause had died down the judge ordered her to pay a monthly mite.
I'm afraid I shall have no such luck. For one thing I haven't inherited my mother's élan. Just her ability to skate on thin ice and now that's worn thin. What I can say here though, which I'd be hard put to explain to a judge in court, is that a preoccupation and affection for the low life is something that involves quite ridiculous economics. You'd be amazed at just how much the downhill struggle costs. A first class single to the gutter nowadays is a minimum of £10,000 a year and that's without paying tax, rates, telephone, electricity, .gas and all the unnecessary essentials like clothing and food.
I suppose that in some ways I'm paying the price for choosing my friends wisely. There are no bank managers, . area managers, solicitors, army officers or stockbrokers in my belt and most of my acquaintances would agree that Hamlet hit the nail on the head when he inquired as to who would bear fardels. The fardels born by the aforementioned family in Haslemere such as life insurance, BUPA contributions, annual holidays in the Algarve plus weekly contributions to Tesco and the local Christmas club eat away at the ammunition one needs to lead a double life and yet they seem to pay up with little effort. The law is kind to the exception that does fall by the wayside and you might have noticed that when a man who loves the middle life goes broke for thousands he invokes little more than murmurs of sympathy from the bench. Go bust for £325.89 though and there's all sorts of trouble. What gets up the law's nose is how you go broke.
It's one thing to ask for an overdraft to buy five hundred begonias for the borders in Haslemere but, quite another to seek financial succour to avail oneself of some of the 5-2 they're offering on Ile de Bourbon for the St Leger. I can't see that one is necessarily more malignant than the other unless, of course, you knock the gardener who's planting the begonias for his wages. But, I must stress, I'm not complaining. I plotted a course for the county court and I've arrived at my destination having cunningly avoided the rocks of Haslemere, the quicksands of Wimbledon and the shoals of Bournemouth. It remains to be seen whether I shall be allowed pen and paper to address you from Brixton or whether the court will believe that, starting tomorrow, it's all going to be different.
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