Low life
High and dry
Jeffrey Bernard
The birthday presents I received last week made an odd mixture. There was a very welcome compact disc of Mozart's Requiem, a pink plastic clockwork seal to Play with in the bath, a biography of Nelson — the sixth I have of the man — lunch at the Gay Hussar, a bottle of excellent vodka and an ivory pen holder carved in the shape of that prize shit Napoleon. Dreadful man. It is to be hoped that I can write out a winning betting slip with him though. Oh, and Norman kindly bought me some lobster. I bought myself some Stravinsky.
The trouble with a compact disc unit is that it needs everybody in the house to disappear to the country for the weekend because it really needs volume for the best effects. Last night I played the Rite of Spring with the window wide open and I fear it woke everybody up in the genito- urinary hospital. I fear that collecting compact discs is going to prove to be an extremely expensive hobby and it's no good telling me that one of them is merely the price of a round of drinks. You could end up comparing everything to the price of a drink. I bought a new jacket last week for a crate of Smirnoff, and so on.
Anyway, I write to you on the eve of Derby Day and I am feeling very pessimis- tic about the chances of my fancy, Al Mufti. It will, I suppose, be of some consolation to have spent the entire day with a bunch of Soho lunatics, but I would like to win the price of an exotic holiday. I have taken to studying the Times Atlas in bed and plotting foreign trips. I used to read cookery books and the Sherlock Holmes short stories in bed but now it is travel books and travel brochures. At the moment I am toying with the idea of Zanzibar. I am not quite sure why; some- thing I read somewhere. I think it might well be a little decadent which appeals. Anything is better than 'sightseeing'. I can't imagine how awful it must be to be an American in London and actually feel obliged to visit the Tower of London. I would rather stand and stare at the food hall in Harrods.
Meanwhile I have had yet another in- vitation to Africa from a Spectator reader. This time to Botswana. I am surprised that anyone reads The Spectator out there but then I don't know anything about the place. The invitation came from a man who has been a teacher out there for umpteen years and he says his wife, a local woman, is the best cook in the land. It is a long way to go for a drink and a bite and I imagine the price of an air ticket must be something in the region of £1,000. So thanks a lot but no thanks.
You're dead without a car, though, in such places. You see nothing. Kenya would have been pretty awful if my hosts hadn't kindly put a car and driver at my disposal. The driver could speak very little English and that was marvellous after a lifetime of London taxi drivers. He didn't thank me for not smoking either and now most airlines are to forbid smoking. Worse than that is the fact that Egypt Air is dry. A nauseating man kept offering me glasses of 7-Up when I first flew back from Cairo and it is no surprise that one sees so many toothless grins in the Middle East. The camels must drink sweet drinks as well.
When I flew out to Beirut a while ago with 50 horses the poor things didn't have any water. I suppose if they had we would have been awash after a while but it seemed .harsh at the, time. The captain of that aeroplane asked those of us who had signed on as grooms — so as to get a free flight — not to drink alcohol but he had to be ignored. That aircraft flew itself and the captain and his co-pilot, both Arabs, screamed at each other all the way. There was something slightly nerve-racking about being flown by people rowing about poli- tics. We stable lads really needed some- thing other than 7-Up. I wonder what happened to those horses. From Berkshire to Beirut must have seemed odd to them. Like tomorrow: the Groucho Club to Epsom. Heaven help us.
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