Low life
Babes in arms
Jeffrey Bernard
It was fascinating to read that two babies in Bangladesh were married last week to settle a 20-year feud between two families over a disputed farm. The bridegroom is 11 months old and his bride is a blushing three-month-old lady. And I always thought people got married to start dis- putes. I would guess that the bride's mother is probably about 18 which puts the bridegroom on to a good thing full of potential. I have had one mother-in-law that I vaguely fancied although I wouldn't have left home for her because she lived in Hemel Hempstead which isn't my neck of the woods. But anyway, this marriage is going to be extraordinary. I have frequent- ly had to remove a gin and tonic from a woman's lips in order to kiss her, but never a comforter. It is however some comfort to know that two children will shortly be abused by each other and not by a social worker from Camden.
What miffs me a little is the fact that the authorities in Bangladesh have not seen fit to call me in as technical adviser. I shudder to think of their honeymoon. In the course of removing a woman's restrictive clothing I have never had to grapple with a safety Pm. The Scots girls were not wearing kilts when I eventually cornered them. Another thing that intrigues me is just when will they have their first row? At the moment he is fractionally too young to stay out all night but I can see a squabble or two on the horizon particularly when he comes home and complains about having had a hard day at the nursery. By the time she is old enough to talk I fear she will have an awful lot to say. It is all being bottled up inside her at this very moment. Most children first say either 'mummy' or 'daddy', but in this instance I think it will be either 'you make me sick' or 'where's my clean nap- py?' How odd to be only 25 when your silver wedding comes around. Even odder to be only five when you realise that the first passion is fading fast. For me, that would have been a blessing in disguise. But now that my passion is almost non- exsistent, it is a relief to take a back seat and watch other people's marriages.
Mr Molotov's must have been an in- teresting one for the fly on his wall. On the same day that the Times reported the infantile wedding in Bangladesh the diary ran a marvellous bit about the Molotovs. Apparently in 1948, when the Politburo voted to purge and imprison his wife, Molotov did not join the vote. He ab- stained. I think he must have been giving her a hint. A clue of sorts. None of my ex-wives were ever under the threat of imprisonment but even so, in view of the Molotov abstention, I find myself wonder- ing which one I would have been most reluctant to stand bail for. I would hope that had that cloud been hanging over them that they would have been remanded in custody and so saved me from having to make a nail-biting decision. My next wife — I don't think I have met her yet and have no intention of travelling to Bang- ladesh in the near future — can take Comfort in the fact that I am well in with the police. So well that they even keep a picture of me at Vine Street police station. I find that rather touching.
Which reminds me, for some strange reason the ferret-faced Customs & Excise men are, I believe, still regarding me in the Coach and Horses although I have no intention of ever taking bets again or swallowing heroin-filled condoms from Bangladesh. (What a good job Norman isn't a smuggler. He'd get it all wrong and swallow a Dutch cap.) But to go back to Molotov, although he was a monster he did have a cocktail named after him. That's an immortality of sorts although unpalatable. I rather envy it considering it to be a sort of low-life OM. A cherry on the top of it would make it a mere OBE. Setting fire to it as daft Italians do would be far too vulgar for words. Don't they realise that they're burning up the alcohol? I suppose it would be quite nice to have a dish named after one too but it would be burned as was my lamb last night. The neighbours saved my life. I suppose they couldn't stand the smell.
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