High life
Out for the count
Taki
T thought it about time that Jeff Bernard lgot the Writer of the Year award. Although a commie-pinko, he's one hell of a writer. In fact, he's the only scribe who actually makes me laugh out loud when I read him. The piece he did three weeks ago taking the mickey out of Princess Michael was a classic. As good as that other classic send-up on Antonia Pinter's beauty routine of long ago. (`She puts on Miss Dior eau de toilette as soon as she gets up and uses the perfume later in the day. She uses Elizabeth Arden Visible Difference just before her evening bath which always has Mary Chess Gardenia Foam. She also likes Revlon Natural Wonder All Weather Pink Lip Moisturiser. . . .')
He is also very absent-minded. Last week he rang me in New York, reversing the charges from a call-box, announced that he had forgiven me for having insulted the patrons of the Coach and Horses, and asked me to fly over in order to share his moment of glory. 'Get on the Concorde you Greek shit and meet me at the Hilton on Wednesday night,' was the way he put it. When I rang him back the pub's number was busy and it stayed busy. I decided that even Jeff wouldn't be that irresponsible, and booked myself economy class on the next morning's flight. (No more Concorde: my drachmas are as worthless as Papandre- ou's promises to run an honest election.) Well, I arrived on time but as soon as I ,got to the Hilton I realised there was a slight problem. Jeff had not only given me the wrong address, he had also got his dates wrong. The prizegiving, as it turned out, had taken place at the Inter- Continental the night before I arrived. I had flown 5,000 miles to bask in his reflected glory and all I got was a 'Sorry, but I believe that was last night' from a hurried night porter trying to accommo- date • some fat Arabs and their dates. Although I love Jeff dearly, right then and there I decided to have it out with him. The next morning I drove to Soho and waited for him outside his pub in Greek Street. At 11 a.m. on the dot he appeared.
Upon seeing me he reacted not unlike Don Giovanni when the Commandatore's statue grabbed him. Then he threw his arms around me, welcomed me as if I had just emerged from prison, and offered to buy me a drink. I quickly realised what had happened. Jeff not only didn't remember the telephone call and invitation, he wasn't even aware that I'd been out of prison for three months. I decided to say nothing but have a drink instead. But my bad luck persisted. Jeff, it seems, had got very drunk the night before, had missed the awards, and — far worse — had lost the cheque for f.500 that the committee had kindly advanced him. By the time we reached the bar it was panic stations. Nothing, however, that three vodka limes and soda in succession' couldn't handle. 'How are you, how do you feel?' Jeff kept saying to me. He fussed over me as if I were a baby, but at times a sad look would cloud his concerned expression. Obviously it had to do with the missing cheque. Finally the vodkas took care of that too. 'They can stuff their bloody cheque,' was the way he put it. As far as I was concerned I was very happy to be out of that dreadful New York, footloose and fancy-free in London. I forgot all about his absent- mindedness and as of this writing we plan to spend our summer together.
Jeff's stories are legion, needless to say. One day someone should put them all down in writing, sell them to Hollywood, and keep him in the style to which he's never been accustomed for the rest of his life. The last time I had seen him was before I got into trouble. I began drinking with him at 11 in the morning in David Potton's pub across from the Spectator. At three in the afternoon, after a liquid lunch at Kettner's we went round to my place as I had to play tennis at Queens. I left Jeff peacefully asleep in a large armchair at around five, played tennis until seven, had some friends in for drinks at nine, then left for dinner with him still out. At around 2 a.m. we all came back from Annabel's and continued to drink. It was 4 July if I remember correctly, and the day was still long. At five in the morning, with about ten people all around him drinking and frolicking, Jeff woke up. He had slept exactly 12 hours. He looked rested and cheerful. He reached for the enormous vodka glass that he had filled and set next to him before he passed out the day before, put some ice in it, and drank it down. He chatted with my friends as if he knew them. Then he got up, looked out the window where the dawn was just breaking and said: 'The trouble with London is it gets dark so fucking early.'
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