Low life
Credit where - it's due
Jeffrey Bernard
Three years ago, when I had nowhere to live, I began to use the Coach and Horses as an office of sorts and a poste restante. The place has had many uses. Everybody knows that 29 Greek Street, Soho, is the boozer. Not the nutters who run Barclaycard, however. This is the letter I got from them this week.
MR BERNARD [printed, not typewritten, to make you feel important] Welcome To Your New Home at 29 Greek Street.
Dear Mr Bernard, Welcome to your new home! Now that you've completed your move to 29 Greek Street you've probably started to think about all the things your new home needs... and you may be wondering how you're going to afford it all! Well, Mr Bernard, as an established Barclaycard hol- der with a good credit history . . . there is no better way for you to finance purchases for your new home than Masterloan. As you may know, Masterloan is a credit program- me designed specifically to help Barclaycard holders, such as yourself, make major purch- ases. Borrow Up To £7,500 . . . . No Money Down.
And so on, and so on. They go on to list some items that have nothing to do with my new home, such as school fees (should I send Norman to Eton?), sports gear (some dice and a craps table?) or a car (and a manslaughter charge?).
Well, there are some things my new home needs. The lavatory in the Gents could do with a chain and the staff could be sent to a language school to learn English and to New York or Dublin to learn how to serve a drink. A cleaner could be hired to clean up the disgusting bits of chewing gum adhering to the underneath of the bar rail and the new French barman could be treated to a shampoo. How strange it is that having paid a few piddling bills promptly they think I am worth £7,500. What the hell do I want to borrow £7,500 for? It has to be paid back with interest and it is a loan I would only apply for if my doctor told me I had just one month to live. Sadly, he can't tell me much because he too can barely speak English. This new policy of Norman's of employing linguistic incompetents and virgin barmen is an unconscious display of contempt for his customers that only a teetotal publican could harbour. What I should do is give him £7,500 to open a tea shop in Clacton.
Anyway, the good news is that after the South African government refused me a visa I am off to Barbados next week. Touch wood. It is still my favourite place, just edging out Thailand by a short head. It is not a suitable resort for intellectuals but excellent for lounge lizards. What is there to do there? Absolutely nothing and who could want for more? The heat of the West Indies melts my bones and lying on the beach or by the side of a pool and listening to the clink of ice against glass which heralds the approach of the waiter I want to jump up and telex Norman as to what he can do with the Coach and Horses.
I used to sit in a beach bar called Kisses in St James and it was run by a black Cyd Charisse. She wore practically nothing and a bead of perspiration on her looked like a diamond. I could spend an entire after- noon watching her glide between the tables like a panther. You don't see many people gliding like panthers behind the bar in the Coach and Horses I can tell you. Stumbling like deranged sheep more like. So it looks to be a fourth trip to Barbados. I may miss Royal Ascot but not a lot. All these silly people and their silly clothes. They get in the way of the horses.
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