Low life
Bygones
Jeffrey Bernard
Many years ago, round about 1950, I sparred three rounds one morning in Jack Solomon's gymnasium with. Al Phillips, The Aldgate Tiger, when he was European and Empire featherweight cham- pion. He knocked seven kinds of shit out of me and then patted me on my numbed head and said, 'Don't step out of your class, son.' Why on earth I should remember that last week as I came off the wagon and open- ed a bottle of Schadenfreude 1976, hea- ven alone knows. Until that moment of weakness; when I stretched out my hand for the corkscrew, I'd been reflecting on the sad business of Derek Jameson losing his libel battle against the BBC and about £75,000 into the bargain. Now, I must point out to you that I've never been one to bear grudges. Injuries and slights don't fester in my mind. I can barely remember the last time someone did me down and while it's true that Mr Jameson sacked me from the Daily Express when he took over in 1976 and sent me sprawling back into the gutter so to speak, I derive no satisfaction from his courtroom demise. Far from it. I take my hat off to any man with his background who can drag himself up by his own bootlaces, overcome almost every hurdle put in his way by a vindictive Mother Nature, and become editor of a national newspaper. It's true that when he did give me the tintack he did it in a very brusque almost rude — way, but I'm sure that's just his manner and is the result of his retiring and shy way. An endearing disguise you might call it for a man bewildered at having so much so soon. But to reach for the stars and actually get the Star is something that goes to no man undeserved. After all, you only get out of life what you put into it.
What's awful is that I've also remembered I owe Mr Jameson an apology. He sat next to me and opposite Germaine Greer at a Private Eye lunch one day and Germaine and I were thoughtless enough to embark on a long and detailed discussion about oral sex. A pretty tactless thing to talk about in front of a man with working- class origins when you consider that oral sex is only indulged in by the middle and upper classes and therefore regarded as something of a treat by the workers. The good news is that Mr Jameson says he's actually got the £75,000. Paying it out is going to leave him pretty short but having it at all just goes to prove once again that the wiseacre who coined the phrase 'You only get out of life what you put into it' ranks with Edison, Marconi and Bell as a man who knew how to put it across. But you can't keep a good man down and I'm sure Mr Jameson will land on his feet, as he deserves to.
Life is far too short to bear malice I always say. You play the cards you're dealt, as I did once with Richard Harris at Shep- perton Studios. The fact that I lost every penny I had — he wouldn't play house rules — and that he wouldn't even give me the fare home matters not a fig and is now so blurred in my memory it is hardly worth mentioning.
But to go back to Mr Jameson for a minute before he recedes completely in my mind, what is worthy about him is the fact that he brought his action against the BBC on behalf of Fleet Street and not for his own gain. You've got to hand it to a man whose motives stem from a heart in the right place. Take Colin, one of my oldest
friends. Years ago, I came to London for a weekend from Suffolk and had a sudden two-day affair with a girl friend of some long standing. Colin immediately telepholl" ed my wife and told her, I think you ought to know, Jeff's been going to bed with Helen.' 'Why are you telling me this, Col- in?' asked my wife. 'Because I consider it my duty as a friend,' he said. There again I was in an awkward situation as I was late! to be when Mr Jameson gave me the old heave-ho, but it hardly ever crosses mY mind nowadays and I can't think whY should suddenly remember it. Anyway oC in asked me to lend him £50 the other de. It's a funny old life, isn't it? Incidentally, I believe it was the man who said that you only get out of life what Ycal, into nto it who also coined the phrase `1:''T bygones be bygones' and I go along Ot'', that . I mean if I were to meet the sergearu, who hit me over the head with a shovel
Catterick in 1951 I'm sure when I was banged up in the guardhouse at
drink and a chat about old times. 'HO°, sarge. What are you having?' I'd saY, to place his face. No, it would be an aw.'11 world if we couldn't forget and forgIvne. The Count of Monte Cristo and Grimesby Roylott give me a pain. DO fir
we'd have a
remember when Roylott tells sherioii Holmes, 'I am a dangerous man to fall foal, of!' Revenge and threats — such a waste to time and energy. Anyway, good luck 1'd what's his name. Oh yes, Jameson. nearly forgotten.
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