Low life
Playing it down
Jeffrey Bernard
The trouble is that these pros in Fleet Street can't recognise irony or a tongue in the cheek. Their trivial and inaccurate guesses irritate too. I may be stooping a little low in defending myself but it needs to be said that 'not one of Keith Water- house's wittier lines' wasn't one of his lines at all. It was said by Francis Bacon to me and I quoted it in this column. Another paper said that I can't understand English and can't write. Well, I can understand and speak enough English to order a meal but I never claimed to be a writer with a capital W. Neither did I ever try to sell the petrol out of the tank I drove. That was done by another tank crew in my squadron.
What delights me is the acclaim the critics gave Peter O'Toole, the cast, Keith and Ned. They deserve all the praise there is going. Of course, Norman has gone completely mad in spite of the fact that he doesn't even appear on the stage in his play. It may have something to do with the £500 he has put into it. I should have thought that was a drop in the ocean to him. I know it is. Even I have put £500 on a horse without losing any sleep as it can- tered down to the start. It won and so will Norman. Meanwhile he is screaming that he is immortal. I feel like Frankenstein but I don't know how to disconnect the elec- trodes. To watch him now you might think that he was running Harry's Bar or La Coupole. Anyway, life is suddenly something of an anti-climax for me. I need a new enthu- siasm and it is far too late to start collecting stamps or to go on country walks. After the excitement of the first night life is going to be very ordinary again and it is at times like this that I have often made the great mistake of making geographical changes in the foolish hope that it would be like turning over a new leaf. I don't like being dependent on London. But at least I have been expanding my shuffling perambulations. Twice this last week I have been to the Globe Theatre, not to see the play but to have a chat with my old friend Joan who runs the foyer bar. It makes a nice change from the pub. She told me that she doesn't miss working in the members' bar at the races — too much travelling every day — but she has a memory so good it can be embarrassing. Could I remember the time that we and a gang of bookmakers drank all the cham- pagne on the race train coming back from York to London by the time we reached Doncaster? Vaguely. That was 20 years ago. Does Lady Aitken still speak to me? No.
And what about those afternoons at Newbury with boozy trainers like Bill Marshall and Eddie Reavey when some- times none of us even went outside to catch a glimpse of a horse? I remember them well. I can't understand my nostalgia for those days at the races. Fun times but hard `Which emergency service do you require police, fire or police?' times. Joan never saw me go thirsty, though. Now it's my round. About time too.
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