Low life
A bunch of silly girls
Jeffrey Bernard
Iseem to have a gift for inspiring women to utter some of the worst lines that have never been written. I suppose the most well-known one, although not particularly clever, was 'You make me sick,' but more memorable to me, and even Keith Water- house used it in the play, was, 'You've snapped at me for the last time.' That was followed by some quite ridiculous mumbling about, 'We can still be friends. We can always go out for a meal or to the cinema and we can go Dutch.' How anyone could think about such mundane practicali- ties as going Dutch in the middle of what should have been such a poignant scene has always seemed more than a little ridiculous to me.
They can't be stopped, though, and I met another one recently who came out with even more stunningly practical suggestions than going Dutch in restaurants and cine- mas. I pointed out to this new lady that if life wasn't too short for a lot of shilly-shal- lying then my life certainly was. She said that in that event we could still go on see- ing each other from time to time and that if I ever needed any shopping such as some cheese or butter from the supermarket, she would be only too glad to pop over and get it for me. Although I was again surprised to prompt such an amazingly practical response, I have also been somewhat put out by the fact that my disappearance into the sunset should inspire thoughts of Cheddar cheese and New Zealand butter.
But there was one very stupid question asked of me which still rankles. In a flash of what I can only describe as petulance, she asked me, 'When did you last do somebody an act of kindness?'. I was quite taken aback, well-known as I am for my countless humanitarian gestures and deeds, my thou- sands of acts of generosity, gifts to charities and a positive compulsion to help old ladies across the road. But I was also damned if I could remember exactly when it was that I last gave unasked. The ledgers listing kind acts are locked away in the vaults of Barclays Bank, Soho Square. But it is a great consolation to me to think, as I do sitting here in my wheelchair wasting away and unwanted, that at the raising of an eye- brow — the only part of my body that still moves — I can get young women to plun- der the cheese and butter mountains of the EC and at the same time behave and prob- ably sound like a Dutch uncle.
I should be getting used to this by now. It is two years since Emma Forrest, the teenage wonder-girl of journalism under the wing of Julie Burchill, spoke to me after I shouted at her for putting a chicken in my oven without having put it in a bak- ing pan. It is two years as well since the drama student, standing in for Vera one day, told me that she couldn't Hoover the sitting-room because there was already a plug in the wall socket. But it is only three weeks since Fiona and Fanny took exception to my saying in this column that Fiona's offer of friendship was, in fact, her way of saying 'I like you but I don't want you.' The language was stronger but that was the gist. What little wimps and whingers these girls are. A proper woman would rightly defend herself, chew me up and spit the bones out. But I suppose that is why I call these other easily-upset and sensitive little souls girls and not women. I suppose the time will come when I shall be completely ostracised by the female sex, and the only one to remain in the years to come will be Vera who, by then, will be feeding the dribbling, cantankerous old invalid with spoonfuls of porridge. Cheese and butter, as well.
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