Low life
Worse luck
Jeffrey Bernard
Well, we didn't win anything last weekend. The horse I backed in the Grand National, Ghofar, finished all right, but well down the field, and the horse my daughter backed, Roll-a-Joint, was killed. A thousand times more important than a stayer's handicap at Liverpool, though, was the fact that Keith Waterhouse and Peter O'Toole didn't win anything at the Olivier Awards the following night at the Dominion Theatre. It would have been appropriate if Tom Conti, the presenter of the awards with Jane Asher, had had to hand out something to Peter and Keith. But it was not to be, although I sat there with eight fingers and two thumbs crossed in hope. When I arrived at the Dominion I was greeted by a barrage of photographers, lights flashing. For just five seconds I almost felt like a star. But the middle-aged onset of a sense of reality had me thinking how absurd it all was. Nowadays, I would need a stop-watch to time my fantasies. Downstairs in the stalls bar I quickly realised that *there would be no awards coming in the direction of Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell when I was told that six members of the judging panel were run-of-the-mill theatre-goers who had written in volun- teering their services, having filled in ap- plication forms displayed in West End theatres.
It was the first time I had ever been to one of these ceremonies and I soon real- ised that it was better, like the Grand National, as a stay-at-home job, to be watched on television. There were mo- ments when I would have dearly liked to switch off what I was watching on the stage and disappear into a kitchen to make some tea. I sat next to Ned Sherrin and behind Sir David Napley and Katie Boyle. As Ned said, I should have taken the opportunity to get my legal and emotional problems sorted out. After all that we climbed into a limousine and were driven to the Grosve- nor House Hotel for a champagne recep- 'I'm sending you to Strangeways for a re- fresher course.' Lion and then dinner. The fizz was free but when somebody fetched me a vodka they were charged, which I thought was some- thing of a liberty. I had taken my best behaviour out with me for a rare evening and so didn't say anything. Then, when we sat down to eat a turkey escalope, Keith said, 'Why are they giving us aeroplane food on the ground?' All that was missing was the cellophane wrapping.
But it wasn't a bad effort, considering they were catering for about 400 people. I don't expect much from hotels unless I am actually staying in one. Fleeting visits are faintly ridiculous. In the gentlemen's cloakroom an attendant ushered me to a vacant urinal and expected a tip for so doing. I can see for myself if no one is standing there and I hate to have my jacket brushed off almost on to the floor as though I alone have all the dandruff in the world. That gesture is a strange mix of sycophancy and putting one down. Obviously a lavatory attendant must learn a lot about psychology in the course of a day, but the smarmy ones don't realise that if they look away for a second you can lift up a coin already deposited in their saucer and drop it from a great height, the crash giving the impression that you are Mr Bountiful.
Going home in a taxi at the end of the day I found myself wondering if lavatory attendants talk shop during their breaks. I have noticed that not many writers do. They talk about money for most of the time. Not a nice topic. Then neither is the goings-on in the gentlemen's cloakroom. I had a restless night and dreamt that I was given an award in a gents, but I don't know what for.
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