Low life
Hypo critical
Jeffrey Bernard
Ididn't know that I was in such good company until I read in John Osborne's Diary last week that he too is diabetic. I knew that the delightful Sue Townsend is, as is Gorbachev, but Osbome's revelation came as something of a surprise. The busi- ness of being accused of being drunk when one is, in fact, having a hypo gets up my nose too and it isn't just enemies and the police that level the accusations. I have only to doze off in the Groucho Club for ten minutes and the next thing I hear is that I am drunk from breakfast to Christ- mas. If that were so I would not be addressing you now. In fact, I would not be able to earn a living and would have to drop out into a cardboard box on the Embankment or somewhere.
But I am fed up with the reputation that I have brought upon myself. On Monday the Daily Mail captioned a picture of me `vodka drinker'. Dear oh dear. That master chef, Alastair Little, is well-known for tak- ing afternoon naps in the Groucho but nobody points the finger at him, nor should they. What a strange paradox it is that I would be unemployable if I were teetotal like Richard Ingrams. With that alarming thought in mind I shall pour myself a snifter now although it is only 7 a.m. I raise my glass to Osborne and Townsend. That's better.
I am up early today to take Deborah to Cardiff for the first night of Dennis Water- man's bash at Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell. Come to think of it, in my condition she is taking me, although I have at last forsaken my crutches for the dependable Spectator walking stick. Hers is a strong arm to lean 'Typical — you wait ages, then thousands come at once!' on. Well, the press have had a fair old crack at trying to make a triangle out of a straight line this past few days. Real news must be in short supply.
I am a mere spectator in these matters and will be so even more when I move to my 14th-floor eyrie next week. No Ameri- can would dream of calling it an eyrie but it makes me feel dizzy to look out and see Hampstead and Highgate. Window clean- ers must have nerves of steel. Thank God I don't live in Hampstead any more. It must have been bad enough to have been born there if only I could remember it. There was a doctor in the army when I was doing National Service who admonished me for frequenting Soho even then and who said, `When I want conversation I go to Hamp- stead.' He was probably one of the clique that drink in the Flask, pretty dull Guardian-readers for the most part when I drank there and having Glenda Jackson for their MP serves them right.
But Hampstead isn't the only London so- called village in decline. I was in the Ful- ham Road recently and looked into the Queen's Elm for just the one and the place is now a disaster area. I was reminded of the days when it was a really good pub run by the name-dropping Sean Treacy when the sad news came through of the death of Liz Frink. What a good woman she was and what a striking-looking woman too. In those days her hair was like a golden ancient Greek helmet and with that profile she looked quite magnificent. That would have been about 1953, the first time I met her and I believe the last time Laurie Lee bought a drink.
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