Low life
Out to lunch
Jeffrey Bernard Last week The Spectator kindly gave me a lunch, which had been postponed since July, to celebrate the fact that I didn't die when I went to Morocco. I chose the guests and, after the restaurant I also chose for the lunch, they may be regretting my sur- vival. I took them to the Rasa Sayang in Frith Street which is a Malaysian restau- • rant and one of my favourite eating houses and, although it might never get a mention in an upmarket restaurant guide or be patronised by the expense-happy Nigella Lawson, I did once recommend it in a Spectator diary. They prepare a lot of what a purist might call touristy dishes but I love them, especially a gooey chicken with orange sauce.
Among the guests were Juliet Simpkins, an old flame and friend, and the journalist Vicki Woods. That morning, the Express's William Hickey printed a report saying I was being given a lunch in Charlotte Street and that among the guests there would be a certain Vicki Simpkins. I wonder how much these people get paid for inaccurate reporting and where on earth did they get their little bits of information from? And is it of any interest to anybody that one, The Spectator's 'fragile columnist', is having a lunch and has not asked Taki to it? Only maybe to the owner of the Rasa Sayang.
The following day there was more orien- tal grub when I went with two friends to Leyon's in Wardour Street. That really is a touristy place and has been going strong since the early 1950s. In fact, I remember Leyon himself winning the 2,000 Guineas with his horse, Ki Ming. Like a lot of Chi- nese restaurants, Leyon's serve up their food on cold plates. I loathe that and it is as awful as a workman's cafe that puts, as so many of them do, a fried egg and bacon on to a cold plate.
I am now paying for both those lunches though and, apart from drinking too much tea, the kidney unit at the Middlesex had warned me against Chinese-type food, so I am now sitting here breathlessly dictating this column. Breathing difficulties frighten me considerably. It is awful enough physi- cally not to be able to get your breath, but there is also the feeling of suffocation and I have thoughts, not for the first time, of being buried alive. If I didn't smoke, I would have a cylinder of oxygen installed in this flat and I hope it isn't going to end like this.
Anyway, Ned Sherrin livened up the lunch at the Rasa Sayang as did Peter McKay, the new skipper of that old barrel of laughs, Punch. McKay brought with him a copy of Robert Runcie's biography and asked me to review it for him. At the moment I feel too ill to read it, but perhaps that idea was a joke as well.
Somebody else suggested that I go on Mrs Merton's show and, having watched her for the first time last night, that has got to be one of the worst jokes for an age. I had been told that she was a dangerous woman, quite brilliant at putting people down, and I couldn't see that. Since her guests, Jimmy Hill and Andrew Neil, arc both in their way fairly near rock bottom, I couldn't see that she had much work to do and I can put myself down better than most chat show hosts just by appearing. I really can't see how somebody like Mrs Merton can achieve such prominence and popularity.
Of course, the English will laugh at almost anything and this country must be a pretty safe haven for a stand-up comic. But it's all so very soft and terribly tame. When he had his own television show in America, Groucho Marx would shoot his guests down in flames and a touch of cruelty must be an essential part of humour. But Mrs Merton, a sort of extremely poor woman's Dame Edna, is just a nosy face over the garden wall. Vicki Woods telling the story of how she interviewed Mike Tyson for The Spectator really would make good televi- sion. Just as the Westminster Council likes to give jobs as home-helps and carers to idiot compulsive Mars Bar munchers, igno- rant teenagers and anyone who can't speak English, so television likes to make stars out of burnt-out embers.
One of Vera's stand-ins asked me the other day whether I wanted the dirty plates and cups in the kitchen sink washed up. Any day now she'll bring me the morning tea telling me that the sitting-room is on fire and would I like her to put it out? She should be on television.
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