Low life
Ups and downs
Jeffrey Bernard
The flat racing season ended last Saturday, Christmas looms and through the letterbox this morning I got a handout about an artist from Hong Kong which said, amongst other things, 'Chung Yee Chong is currently researching for a Ph.D thesis on the works of Henry James at the University of London.' I buried my face In my trembling hands, came up for air and noticed that between the drizzle outside and my desk there are on the windowsill four books on depression, one on death, three on alcoholism, two on the death of the family, one on aggression and another call- ed Sex in Human Loving. Yesterday, 1 took ray daughter to Kettners for lunch and a blind pianist played 'You Don't Bring Me Flowers Any More'. He followed that with 'Mood Indigo' and then they brought the bill. This afternoon is my last chance to appear at Bow Street to pay my fine and damages for the fracas in the Indian restaurant two weeks ago otherwise I'll get nicked, but what's odd is that it's the business of the Henry James thesis that brings me down the most. What on earth do You do with a thesis on Henry James anyway?
Only yesterday I was idly remarking to someone in the Coach that the older I get the less depressed I get. And then something ups and spoils it all. Sir Peter Parker gets to be on a panel to judge the 12 best novels of the century and doesn't even include Bradshaw. A piece I wrote on Bar- bados gets spiked because of Grenada and a magazine I go to all the way to Fulham has run out of cheques, or so they say. But, as I say, life is here and has to be got through with the minimum of fuss, and then I read that someone is going out screaming by writing a thesis on the works of Henry James. I'd also very much like to know how my name was picked out of what bag by the PR handling the arse-aching boredom of Ms Chung Yee Chong's affairs. Would you believe that she also finds time to paint fruit and vegetable still-lifes and fish and vegetable still-lifes. It's 20-1 on that she'll also find time to win the 1984 Booker Prize to be judged next year by Ray Buckton, Jean Rook, Jeremy Thorpe and Sir Charles Forte. Horses for courses. And how about Arthur Scargill for the next Nobel Peace Prize?
Yes, it's all so trivial it really does take quite some effort to get deeply into the dumps. After all, 1983 has been pretty awful. There was ten weeks in bed with the ,chest at death's door for one of them. I thought the foot was coming off last month and never have I come across such a strange and awful collection of women as I have this year. And they think I'm difficult. There was a time when they simply wanted one to change and settle down. What they want now is something of a mystery to me. At the time of writing this column it's a mere three minutes until opening time, I'm not on my bike and you can't ask for a man to settle down more than that. No, there must be something else I'm doing wrong and maybe,it's as simple as just not caring enough about that game any more. I really am fed up with being regarded by women as
being a Cruise missile in disguise. Perhaps they can sense that I no longer mind being alone. Loneliness, I've discovered rather too late, is a luxury for the selfish and what is sad is that nearly all of us are disappoin-
ting. Those of you in my boots are missing nothing. Watching Cyd Charisse in Singin' in the Rain the other night it occurred to me for the first time that she probably
wouldn't like me to smoke in the bedroom and that even she gets ladders in her stock- ings. She may not even heat the pot before she makes tea. There are no gods or god- desses left. Look at the faces in Oxford Street It takes very little to be extraor- dinary and that's enough.
Well, it's ten past eleven now and I've ripped open two buff envelopes already with careless abandon and I actually find myself smiling for a change. But somewhere out there a Chinese lady is studying and researching for a Ph.D thesis on the works of Henry James. When she's not doing that she's probably hoping that the head waiter at the Lee Ho Fook will change and settle down. One day they'll probably open a restaurant called the Golden Bowl. All will not have been in vain. Having no thesis of any sort under my belt I will now sally forth to another wonderfully happy, unimpor- tant and useless day. Cheers.
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