Low life
Bolt holes
Jeffrey Bernard
Ishould never have gone to Barbados for the first time ten years ago. Since that time I have become increasingly obsessed with the sun, sea, rivers and holidays. I was up and reading travel brochures at 6 a.m. this morning and it is difficult to know what to believe and what not to believe in these catalogues of temptations. Even the photo- graphs distort the truth and make attrac- tive the plainest of places. Take Lanzarote. You would have to be a proctologist to like that wretched pile of volcanic ash. But the tour people describe it in glowing terms and even say that a camel trek is a 'must'. Oh, the hell of it. I was actually knocked over by the wind there one day when I stepped into the street. You have to read between the lines. That gale is a 'fresh, warm breeze from Africa'. Yes, it is warm and so is the exhaust from a jet engine.
But what I have been studying is the business of renting a villa or studio and there again the descriptions are open to interpretation. What of the maid who comes along for two hours three times a week? She might be Andrea Dworkin for all you know. And you can cross out any place which has what they call a good 'night life'. Discos attract the worst sort of tourists and I am getting too old to tolerate noise above the level of ice tinkling in an unsteady glass. What did catch my eye was Menorca because they say it is unsuitable for young people, it being so quiet. Peace is so precious that even laughter at times can be repellent.
And now I have heard that a bar I used to drink in in the Algarve is up for sale. The old man wants £6,000 for it and I think that is a small price to pay for a quiet drink. Of course I would bar most people from it ff I had it, except for the locals, that is. Close it up in the winter and have it managed by a trustworthy beauty during the summer. Dreams. Well I have to dream because the reality of this place is so awful. A beach bar in Barbados is still a favourite and so is a house on the river at Bang Pa-In. As it is I am a customer in the Coach and Horses and sick of it.
Norman, by the way, is in the private wing of the Middlesex Hospital having his back scratched. One has to feel sorry for the nurses. Nursing Norman must be like cosseting a ferret. He telephones from his bed to have the till roll read out to him and only eats food that is brought in to him. Bagels and smoked salmon. I think he might have to wear a corset when he comes out next week and I thank God that I don't have to watch him dress in the morning. But as Christmas approaches it occurs to me that there is one good thing about that man. He absolutely refuses to have any decorations in the pub. Christmas to him is like royalty going to the lavatory. Unthink- able.
And where to go for Christmas? It is a toss-up between a hotel in a rural spot and stocking up from Marks and Spencer and staying in bed with a microwave to hand. I am going to buy a small microwave next week and Jennifer Paterson got it all wrong in her diary about M & S. No one — only a fool and Jennifer — goes to M & S to buy a grouse and asparagus. The whole point of the place is the prepared stuff. What they call the recipe food, like moussaka, red cabbage, cottage pie, etc. etc. Who can be bothered to make their own chicken Kiev?
The good news is that they now make microwaves with a safety device on them so that if you should fall asleep suddenly as some are wont to do, you don't burn the house down. I wish they would make cigarettes with similar devices. Somebody advised me to buy a smoke detector but are such things able to differentiate cigarette smoke from duvet, trouser and carpet smoke? I doubt it. I should have married Edwina Currie, perish the thought.
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