Low life
Long-distance
Jeffrey Bernard
T f one needed proof of the stupidity of 'Americans beyond the democratic elec- tion of both Mr Carter and Mr Reagan then surely Heaven's Union, the celestial tele- gram service run by a Gabriel Gabor, is just that. In case you didn't read about it the idea is that you can send a telegram of up to 50 words to relatives and friends who've heard the guvnor in the sky call 'last orders' and who've subsequently departed for the Great Beyond. The messengers who carry these mad messages are terminally ill pa- tients who memorise them before they snuff it and Mr Gabor cops £23 for each one. I find it fairly sick.
`How d'you do. I hear you're dying. Jol- ly good. Well done. Look I wonder if you'd do me a favour and ask my wife where she left my gold cufflinks. I'll pay for a reply which you can give to a baby that's going to be born after you get there. And oh, by the way, while you're there ask her was she be- ing knocked off by Bill Smith. Thanks. Have a good trip.'
But that's not all Mr Gabor has up his sleeve. He's got talking tombstones. Before your missus pegs out she records a message on to tape and then, when you visit her grave on a Sunday afternoon to put a vase of dandelions on it, you press a button and `We've just installed this — it's a chap who
to you hear the same old story again. `Hallo, is that you Jeff? I'm amazed you managed to tear yourself away from the pub to come and visit me. Your dinner's in the oven. Honestly, I thought you'd change and settle down. Don't you ever think of the future. Christ, this headache is killing me. I suppose you lost it all at the betting shop. Stop staring at that woman at the next grave. You're drunk again. You make me sick. Don't bother to come next Sun- day. I'll be all right. Don't worry about me. I don't suppose you ever have anyway. Always thinking about yourself. Me, me, me. I told you you make me sick didn't I? Yes, of course I did. Well, good bloody bye.'
Mind you, the chances of outliving a wife are pretty remote so I don't think the ques- tion will arise and I'm wondering if Mr Gabor has any messengers bound for hell. I'm delaying the trip there for as long as possible myself but should any Spectator readers care to send me £23 I'm willing to drive over Beachy Head after one final fling. Yes, I'm definitely not going to heaven. I'm sure it's very white and cold, sparsely furnished with maybe a bit of shin- ing chrome here and there and altogether rather like a modern hospital. I suppose they sit about in little groups talking about the old days and gesticulating limply with their wings and enquiring of all newcomers, 'Any messages?'
Yes, I don't think hell will be a lot dif- ferent from where I'm at now. In fact I'm fairly well convinced that I died in 1932 and this is it. I mean just look at Norman in the Coach. All he needs is a trident in one hand — I must get him to take his shoes off to see if he's got cloven hooves — and there's your devil. God knows, most of the customers are griffins and gargoyles or ad- vocates and I'm certainly getting my fair share of messages. I particularly like the ones I get on the phone when Mum Balon answers it and asks me across the room, having forgotten to cover the receiver, 'Are you here?' Who is it?' I don't think he's here but he says who is it.'
But this American business; they've got to be mad. A psychologist who counsels the terminally ill in Los Angeles says of Mr Gabor's message service: 'It could provide the dying with a sense of purpose.' That's a great bloody comfort. I'm pretty sure I'm dying and my purpose is to hang on to life. Like grim death.
Previous page
