Low life
Nicked again
Jeffrey Bernard
0 ne day last week I thought my luck had changed. I was sitting alone at the bar stroking a drink with a swizzle-stick when an extremely attractive young black woman walked in from the Greek Street end of the pub. I didn't stare but I took note. After a couple of minutes, Michael the barman came over to whisper in my ear that she wanted to see me. I cleared my throat, smoothed my hair, walked over to her and said hallo. She asked me was I Jeffrey Bernard, and, reaching for my autograph signing pen and contorting my mouth into a sickly smile, I told her that indeed I was. At that she said, 'I'm from the Inland Revenue,' and she thrust a piece of paper into my hand demanding £3,668.22 within seven days.
You know it's an odd thing, years ago, not that long ago actually, that would have been like a punch to the solar plexus. Nowadays such things simply make me feel slightly numb. Even the smile froze on my face and I was still smiling when Norman came back from Marks & Sparks with the cottage pie. Yes, she was a very nice looking lady indeed. I had another drink of course and pondered the 22p.
Where do they get these strange figures from? More to the point, how on earth did the messenger of ruin know I would be in the Coach and Horses? Either the Collec- tor of Taxes reads The Spectator, probably posing as a student in order to get a cheaper subscription rate, or I was grassed, and if I was I know by who. Never mind. We must all pay our taxes. So the seven days is nearly up and I must go and see them tomorrow.
Anyway, I just thought you might like to know that that is the third time I have been nicked in the Coach. The first time was for criminal damage — kicking a car that someone aimed at me — and the last time was for the illegal betting nonsense. What will it be next as a magistrate once dreami- ly inquired of me? I do think though that fines should be tax-deductible although I must admit that the unprovoked attack on the rubber plant in the Taj Mahal res- taurant deserved punishment.
Which reminds me. I heard from the police that the man who flattened me outside the betting shop was fined £100 and I am sure you think it was worth it. Norman probably paid it for him.
No, that's not fair. He's very good to me and his concern about my muscle-wasting has got him forcing cottage pies and fish cakes down me every day, and speaking of health I went to see a surgeon yesterday about the cysts at the back of my head. He said that to remove them would require major surgery and that it would be a very difficult operation anyway and one that could lead to future complications as well. So I'm lumbered with a couple of bumps which, please God, don't get any bigger. On the credit side they will probably act as cushions in further demolishings outside betting shops. If only they were on my arse I'd be able to sit down.
Well, after the surgeon had washed his hands of me I strolled down to the pub and found two birthday boys there. It was very jolly. Norman ran out to the patisserie and bought two incredible birthday cakes and we all had sticky fingers. By the way, the till broke down on Monday (overheating?) and had to be taken away for repairs. Have you ever seen a racemare when her foal is taken from her? It is horribly sad. The staff had to jot down the takings on a scrap of paper which was almost beyond most of them, and it had Norman pacing up and down behind the counter like Wackford Squeers.
Anyway, I've had enough of doctors, pubs, surgeons and Soho for a while and I am going off for a week if the Inland Revenue don't confiscate my passport tomorrow. She who would once iron 14 shirts at a standing has driven down to the South of France and I shall go and see her. I shall go by train since every other way of travel seems to be disaster prone. In a way I am rather surprised that I have never been involved in a disaster although I found the soda water to be flat a moment ago. I do love trains but I don't have happy memories of French railways. I once took a train from Paris to Barcelona and had to stand all the way because three French yobs told me what I could do with my 'It's a champagne socialist coup.' reservation. Yes, the French have them too. So I shall have one for the road and bid a fond farewell to £3,668.22. Especially the 22p.
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