Low life
Read all about it
Jeffrey Bernard
Perhaps hate is recycled love. Graham Lord, now 45,000 words into my wretched biography, tells me of a woman I lived with for nearly seven years who refuses to speak to him about me, describing me as a 'closed chapter' in her life. Funny that. I think we should be told just why I am a closed chap- ter. It certainly wasn't a Bank Holiday the last time she needed some money. Any other women wishing to air their grievances should contact Graham at the Sunday Express. He spoke to my second wife, bless her, as well last week and she said, 'You can see what you're getting when you look at him'. And there was I thinking that I looked rather jolly 30 years ago. Anyway, I met the one who calls me a closed chapter in a ghastly pub in the Portobello Road, which should have given her a clue.
When this book comes out I think I shall look at the last page first. I want to know if it has a happy ending and if I get the girl. If I do I hope it isn't the girl next door who is 70 and who told me off yesterday for smok- ing in the lift. But I have opened all my chapters for Graham except for those that remain for ever shut owing to amnesia.
There must be some good reason for having such a miserable face as I have and I don't want to know it. When I had the penultimate sitting for the portrait being painted by Michael Corkrey I remarked on that and also the wrinkles he has ascribed to me. He said he has made me look a lot better than in fact I do. Well, I suppose if you get set up you must expect to get shot down in flames. What with being a closed chapter of wrinkles I feel a little gloomy and I see from the flag flying at the top of the Swiss Centre that the wind is blowing from the east. That doesn't bode well. There are no strains of Sibelius on it or even a single measure of Finlandia vodka.
And that brings me to another point and a serious one too. One day last week a restaurant charged me £5 for a vodka and
soda. I don't suppose a restaurant writer would notice that but I was paying and it turned me to ice. And that was in China- town. Which reminds me, I hit the bonnet of a car last week that was being driven by a Chinaman. He was driving along the pavement outside the Coach and Horses and he nearly knocked me down so I gave the bonnet a whack with my Spectator walking-stick. I fully expect to hear more about it. The last time that happened I kicked a car on the pavement outside Kett- ners. The woman driving it reported me to the police at Vine Street nick. She told them that her awful vehicle had 'been assaulted by a man with grey hair who was obviously fond of a drink. Quick as a flash they said, 'Oh, that'll be Jeff Bernard'. Shades of Sherlock Holmes and I must be careful not to be seen the next time I mur- der somebody. On that occasion they pho- tographed me as well as taking my fingerprints. And you know that business of them destroying records after a time? They don't. Sherlock pressed a couple of buttons on a computer and reminded me that I had been Absent Without Leave in 1951. I thought that was a closed chapter too. Maybe I kicked my tank and went off in a huff, which would be a good name for a smallish tank.
And now the wind is veering from the north-east. Norway. What a dreadful place. Grieg and £3 for half a pint of lousy lager. You would have to be a millionaire to be an alcoholic there. I confined myself to the cruise ship after that experience and drank in my cabin with yet another woman who told me that I made her sick. I think of her whenever Radio 3 puts on the Holburg Suite. Not often. She is almost a closed chapter. That hurt.
Previous page
