Low life
Weighed down
Jeffrey Bernard
Ispent three hours in the Middlesex clinic a couple of days ago and they said they weren't happy about my legs. Neither am I. But at least they said I could keep them for a while longer. My brother says I don't walk enough but where is there to walk to? Lands End? Certainly walking in London is no longer a pleasure now that everyone uses the streets as rubbish dumps. I still keep trying to picture in my mind just how the hell you get in and out of a taxi with one leg. In the event of what my parrot calls a double Long John Silver I suppose the thing would be to hire an au pair girl and stay in bed for good. But none of this nonsense matters. What does worry me is what on earth must the man be like who disposes of these human parts in the hospital incinerator? And don't tell me 'somebody has got to do it'. Nobody has to do anything except breathe. When I spent a day in the theatre in 1969 watching operations (I was writing about a surgeon) I saw some very strange things go into the pedal bin.
But no, it's not the legs it's the weight. They weigh you every time you go to the clinic and I think I am wasting so much that I shall eventually disappear up my own arse. Someone told me a strange story the other day about an Australian woman who was a compulsive eater. She lived in a clapboard-type bungalow and stayed in it for 15 years eating sweets which she had delivered to her. She eventually became so fat and big that when she died they had to demolish the house to get her out. I shall be taken out of this flat in a matchbox and through the letterbox. Anyway, when I got home from the clinic I had to telephone British Telecom and there was no bloody answer. That could only happen in Eng- land, couldn't it? I tell you we are going down the drain.
I am not a sociologist merely a spectator but you would have to be blind not to see that people don't even eat properly any more. There must be a colossal chemical imbalance in this country beginning at 10 Downing Street and ending up in Corona- tion Street. Years ago, when I was deeply depressed and had no idea of the necessary survival kit required for this three score and ten years' amble, a Harley Street man looked me over and said it was purely a matter of chemistry. It was then that I switched from whisky to vodka. Perhaps Marie Antoinette's advice to her people was sound medical stuff although my brother claims she was badly translated and in fact advised them to eat brioche. What I wonder do Manchester United supporters eat. Perhaps the decline of our society began with the chip. I gather that Vikings used to eat toadstools to help them go berserk so I think it possible that football hooligans behave as they do be- cause of a surfeit of chips and steamed pud with custard. I don't know what they eat at Downing Street but I did have tea there once. Lord Wigg gave me a perfectly dreadful cup of tea and a rock cake a la British Rail. What a self-righteous man he was.
Anyway, I eat pretty well but I'm damned if I can put on an ounce. In 1950 when I was boxing I wanted to put on three pounds and my trainer made me put a teaspoonful of powdered gelatine into my cup every time I took tea. It was fairly revolting and might possibly explain the final hammering I took. But nowadays it is almost impossible to eat out — and I am out and about — unless you have an expense account. Hence the crazy prices in restaurants. In an effort to economise I have used the Chinese places in Gerrard Street quite a lot and have duck and rice coming out of my ears. But that doesn't put on weight and rice could be as dangerous as chips, as you might know if you have ever seen a Chinaman lose his temper. It's frightening. Anyway, I can't remember ever having seen a fat Chinaman except for Charlie Chan. The calorie problem for those whose pancreas is up the creek is a stalemate. I resign. I shall now have just the one and forget all about it. Everything.
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