Low life
A cool cucumber
Jeffrey Bernard
Iwas fascinated to read about a man called Ernest Coveley who carried out 14 raids, escaping with more than £9,000, armed only with a cucumber. I quote from the Times, 'The offensive vegetable, dis- guised as a sawn-off shotgun, was used by the bandit to terrify female cashiers into handing over cash. Coveley would point the cucumber, covered with a plastic bin liner, at the cashier and scream, "Give me the money or I'll blow your head off."' Not very nice for the ladies, but what intrigues me, and I have been awake all night pondering it, is the fact that he never used the same cucumber twice. A nice almost delicate touch that and I never thought I should ever spend a night sitting up in bed with a drink in one hand, staring into the darkness and wondering about the life expectancy of a cucumber. I know that most things droop in the end but how long does it take for a cucumber to wither and die? I suppose the happiest ending a cucumber could have would be to end up in a glass of Pimm's.
It also occurs to me that someone or other in County Kerry will have read the report and attempt to hold up a bank with a lettuce. What amazing uses does some food have. A doctor friend of mine once told me that a young honeymoon couple called in at his surgery one day both looking rather sheepish. He asked them what he could do for them and the blushing bride said, 'Well, it's about this banana. It's stuck and we can't get it out.' Now you would have to be up very early in the day to shock this doctor — he has heard it all and he just said to her, 'You'd better take your clothes off and I'll have a look at you,' or words to that effect. She said, 'No, no, it's up him, not me.' All of this makes me believe that a courgette, for example, must feel very apprehensive when it is picked. They must want to grow up to be marrows.
Anyway, Mr Coveley, described as being as cool as a cucumber, has been remanded in custody pending psychiatric reports. I rather hope he gets off lightly: he sounds more eccentric than mad to me. The next time I come face to face with a green salad or a fruit salad I shall want to see its criminal and medical record.
Meanwhile, I am slightly miffed at not being in Paris today (Sunday), to see the Prix de L'Arc de Triomphe. As I write, four hours before the 'off, I am wondering whether to bet or not to bet. That is the question. I have a sneaking fancy for Golden Pheasant and Young Mother but it may be wiser to drink Perrier with lunch today and stay away from the hot line to Victor Chandler, the blessed bookmaker. He will be pouring out the champagne in the grandstand for his party this afternoon. If he wasn't such a thoroughly decent bloke I would view it all with some scepticism. In 1970 his father sent me a crate of Louis Roederer Crystal Brut. I said to my then wife, 'What a lovely fellow he is.' She retorted 'You bloody fool. That probably cost you £5,000.' In the event she was quite wrong for once. Victor senior was as good a chap as his son.
Anyway, the Arc will be history soon and Mr Coveley's last cucumber will end up in the Black Museum at Scotland Yard. Can a man whip out a cucumber and say, 'Make my day'? Such questions make for insomnia.
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