Low life
Flak from the rat pack
Jeffrey Bernard
God save me from censorious col- leagues, not that there is much hope of having that prayer answered. Luckily, most of the flak aimed at me in the past few days has come from small-bore popguns and not the heavy artillery. Not that I give much of a damn, but in all fairness to Graham Lord I wish that they had used as many words reviewing his book as they did reviewing me. Never mind.
We had quite a thrash of a launch party in the Coach and Horses. I was a little sur- prised to see a couple of unfriendly faces and I should have thought that a taxi from Wapping to Soho for a free drink must be bad economics. Oh well, it is the nature of the beast, I suppose. The ladies present and past were delightful, although the wheels fell off one of them later in the Groucho Club where she was seen sprawl- ing on a sofa and heard swearing like a trooper. White wine on an empty stomach, and not good for the breath, by the way. But she always was a trifle theatrical.
Anyway, the only disappointment was the missing faces of a few friends I had hoped would turn up from Lambourn and Newmarket. Peter Walwyn had telephoned earlier to say that he was off to the Borders to shoot grouse and he sounded more like Basil Fawlty than ever. I wonder how many beaters and keepers he bagged. Julie Cecil, a star in the racing world, didn't appear and that was sad.
Sadder still for me was the popping of flash bulbs, which is now just a horrible reminder of how raddled I look. And as lousy luck would have it my brother Bruce Was in hospital. I was carrying a letter in my pocket which I particularly wanted to show him and of which I am childishly proud. It is a get well note which came out of the blue last week from none other than David Gower. From hero to fan. Unusual, that I needed it.
So now it is all over bar a couple of tele- vision interviews. Vicki Woods will be pleased to hear it. In her Daily Mail review of Just the One she complained that I have been going on too much about the book. She is quite right, of course, but it does affect a man strangely to read his own obit- uary. I glance at it, read a paragraph or two and think, and now what? Is this it? Proba- bly.
I shouldn't be surprised if Vera stops coming round, plus anyone else who really
believes that nonsense about my having been sick over the Queen Mother at Ascot. Fergie at Fontwell possibly, but not the first Mum.
And now the good and bad news. Vera has this minute just turned up with my daily bread and Irma Kurtz has just tele- phoned to warn me that the Daily Mail are on the blower to as many ex-lady friends as possible in the hope of getting them to dish intimate dirt about me. No wonder that nonsense over exposure to trivia irritates cannibal colleagues. It is to be hoped that one or two women give them a mouthful but that will be distorted too. How odd that not long ago somebody at the Mail said they wanted to avoid mentioning me because 'this is a family newspaper'. And the Times, I am told, didn't want to print an excerpt from Graham's book, saying I was too demi-monde. Tut, tut.
And this afternoon the People are com- ing to take a photograph of me with my daughter, Isabel. I at last cracked under the strain yesterday when the young woman from the People, Mary Kemp, interviewed me. I heard myself asking her not to assas- sinate me. I must be losing my nerve. It seems now that only the Sunday Indepen- dent in Dublin are safe to write for or to be written about in. Perhaps exile in Ireland is the answer.
And now, dear Vicki Woods, that is my final word on the subject.
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