Low life
Back and forth
Jeffrey Bernard
t's a strange year which ends with what 1 seems to be the kidnapping of 1,000 Irish soldiers by four gunmen. It's also odd that your judge says anyone could acciden- tally have sex with a child. I hope to God that no one could accidentally have sex with a judge. Yes, it's been a rather odd year. Looking through my Economist diary the sight of it always make me think I've ac- tually got something to do — 1983 was packed with trivialities, for me at any rate, and the only exception to that was the death of my best friend, Eva, who killed herself — drunk in bed with a cigarette — acciden- tally in January. I still feel angry about it. Silly cow, if you see what I mean. Otherwise the diary is mostly full of names I can bare- ly remember. Who on earth was Lisa, 1.30 Gay Hussar lunch? Who lives at the other end of 437 6842? I see that I nearly snuffed it at the beginning of March and failed to back Teenoso to win the Derby in June, but the memories of both events are now well faded.
Only three things stick fast in my mind and they were the horror of having the bronchoscopy, meeting Anna Ford at last at the Spectator party and thinking that my left foot was going to be amputated after stepping on the Bajan coral. The idea of possibly having to hop to the Coach and Horses every day was fairly daunting and I still can't work out how the hell you get in and out of a taxi on crutches. Never mind. The body's still here and it will go through 1984 thanks to holding ante-post vouchers on every big race through the year. You did know, I take it, that no one who has struck an ante-post bet can snuff it. It gives a man something to live for.
But what has worried me all year and it's constantly and uncomfortably at the back of my mind is what arrangements for hygiene do they have at Greenham Com- mon? I think Jill Tweedie should look into this matter although my Berkshire stringer, Lady Keen, assures me that the campers wash in Newbury's public swimming pool. And, talking of women, 1983 has been notable for being particularly unnotable. Not since 1950 have the enemy been so thin on the ground and I like a good fight. The sort of fight I don't like took place in the Swiss Tavern in Old Compton Street the other day. One punch and, wham, yours truly was flattened and, of course, asked for it. It served to remind me how very skin- ny I've become without — unlike dear Lester — retaining the strength to blow out a candle. How awful the day when you have to choose carefully whom to abuse.
So, as we slide into 1984 with practically every hack in Fleet Street writing nonsense about George Orwell — is there an il- luminated manuscript in the British Museum called Ten Sixty-Six? — I feel tremendously optimistic. Ante-post bets apart, the world will go on I think since Norman has just invested nearly £1,000 in a machine to wash the dirty glasses. He can see into the future. Come to think of it, the fact that he's got a grand to spare shows that 1983 must have been a vintage year. Oh, and I nearly forgot, my best two books of the year were Enjoy Sex in the Middle Years and Anxiety and Depression: a Prac- tical Guide to Recovery, both published by the Positive Health Group.
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