Low life
In all sincerity
Jeffrey Bernard
There are very few sights more revolting 1 and disgusting afforded to the owner of a television set than that of a gaggle of ac- tors and actresses freeloading in a common, vulgar Park Lane hotel collecting awards that look like bronze Henry Moore turds and slapping each other on the back and kissing each other on the cheeks with all the sincerity of a psychopath committing per- jury in the number one court of the Old Bailey. What is even more ghastly is the fact that these people have their words put into their mouths by writers. Thespians, by and large, strike me as humanoid puppets suspended and operated by egomaniacs and entrepreneurs like Jonathan Miller and National Theatre white elephants like any director with a beard and a house in Hamp- stead. The body language of the self- congratulatory theatre clique is as thick, treacly and sick-making as the treacle and brimstone of Dotheboys Hall. Barry Nor- man grows his hair over his ears. Why? As the awards are announced, dinner-jacketed, so-called stars clap and laugh at pedestrian speeches, mini-addresses and embarrassed asides as though they were applauding Sheridan, Fox, Bevan or Churchill.
Watching the box last Monday night — I can't even remember the names of the awards or programme — I was reminded of a typical Francis Bacon aside — not the 1656-1626 Bacon — that the only way to survive life — that short interval 'twixt birth and death — is to regard very, very nearly everything as being totally unimpor- tant. Show business, it seems, is terribly im- portant. But I don't not respect just actors, 1 think the wordsmiths who make them ejaculate are as bad.
Put it another way. Last week, our lovable editor, Alexander Chancellor, was in the Duke of York and in a good mood. 'Look here, Jeff,' he said, 'I thought your column last week was pretty okay. Have a drink.' Silence descended as Dave Potton assaulted the vodka optic twice before plonking the ice, squeezing the lime and squirting the soda into the crystal goblet. 1 walked up to the bar — trotted and bounced up to it more like the stars in fact — and turned to address the pub.
I kissed the barmaid on both cheeks and said, 'Thank you darlings. It's been a great privilege and an honour to receive this drink. I'd like to say that it's been a team effort and .I want to thank, not only my wonderful editor, Alexander, but also Jen- nifer Paterson without whose motor- scooter peregrinations to the Coach and Horses the column would never have ar- rived at the typesetters; Gina Lewis whose expert subbing prevented the column from being spiked; Jenny Naipaul for phoning me to remind me it was copy day and last,. but not least, Sukie Marlowe for giving me an encouraging wink. I'd also like to thank all those people who made me feel suffi- ciently inadequate to take refuge in jour- nalism — my mother, old headmaster, four wives, bookmaker and Smirnoff. Finally, I'd like to add that I'm sorry Richard West 'We've put his name down for the Foreign Office.' is away in Hong Kong or•HUnting0 alijo I'd like to accept this other vodka °II behalf. Thank you.' It was a wonderful evening and - always treasure the drink that is now on ant mantelshelf. It makes me feel so inert and it's wonderful to know that we're truly wonderful.
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