Low Life
Love among the guyropes
Jeffrey Bernard
After the follies and revels of Derby Day we are back to seething normality. Barney the pianist has fallen in love with a nineteen-year-old trapeze artist. It seems that this beautiful and supple young lady was captivated by Barney's interpretations of Fats Waller and Duke Ellington in a club where he was playing last week. I fear for his life. He happens to be exactly the same age as me and I don't think it seemly for a middle-aged man to ascend the Big Top with a nineteen-year-old — especially if she works without a safety net. But what a strange occupation. and don't tell me, "Someone's got to do it". I think he probably likes the idea of her in her glitter costume and fish-net stockings as I know he has a thing about legs. He says the trapeze artist's are even more magnificent than Cyd Charisse's, but then he'd say the same about Norman's mum's legs after two bottles of wine. Speaking of which, Barney is the only person I, know who drinks wine regularly without food and whose breath doesn't smell like a drain. Funny thing that, white wine drinkers especially smell of decay. I know a woman who smells like a silo at closing time. But I digress. The latest news of the trapeze artist is that she is going round to Barney's flat with a hoover this week to clean it up. With her sort of talents she'll probably hoover the ceiling. But when will Barney come down to earth? He is not Burt Lancaster and she is not Gina Lollobrigida. (God, how boring circus films are.) Anyway, I still think it's a strange career to carve out for yourself. Mind you, there is a woman steeplejack in Yorkshire I'm told and I know there is a woman bookmaker in Liverpool. (I wouldn't like to owe her money.) I have advised Barney to stick to actres- ses. they are readily available in all major towns and cities just as, say, car parks are, and they don't want to climb higher than bed. Of course I can see that her being nineteen has some attraction for him but I have reminded him that all people of nineteen are totally selfish and usually rather silly although it speaks well of her that she evidently prefers Ellington to rock. But anyway, as you can see, I have pondered this morning on the occupations working women choose, particularly the ones I have known. I once had a fling in Gloucestershire with a milk maid although perhaps fling is a rather too frenetic a word to use in connection with pastures green. Anyway, she was very ample this milkmaid and she was as strong as a cow. One day I discovered that the great Tom Graveney drank in the local so we began to drift apart. I felt like a little tugboat leaving a liner. Then one day a hornet flew in through the window and I ran out scream- ing and locked the door behind me. The cowardice was never forgiven. And what I'd like to know, come to think of it, is why aren't there medals for cowards? Some of us would be decked out like American generals and Ruritanian princes. Seedy survivors would look quite splendid.
Anyway, some time after the milkmaid I found myself with a cook. Not cordon bleu but the down to earth, no nonsense varie- ty. She was obsessed with puddings. The trouble was there was flour everywhere even under her finger nails and probably toe nails too although I never bothered to look. But there was always flour on her dresses so that whenever she touched me I felt as though I was being prepared for the pot. As I said to Barney, stick to actresses. They are far more tolerant than trapeze artists or milkmaids.
And what can be said of female hacks?
To compare them to any other women is to compare illegal, all-in, bare knuckle fight- ing to the soft and friendly sport that Marvin 'Cuddles' Hagler participates in.
So dear Barney if you do fall — and I mean fall — out of love with the trapeze girl and meet a hackette just remember that when you light the blue touch paper you are supposed to 'retire'. Very, very quickly if I was you.
Previous page
