Low life
So long, Soho
Jeffrey Bernard
They were certainly better days. But somewhere I suppose there are people who are complaining that Swiss Cottage isn't what it was: The casting directors, so to speak, of this awful new series stuffed it with people who would be described in a cinema film as having been making guest appearances. Where were the stars? And where was anyone who had known Soho 20 years ago? So far I have nearly always blamed the decline of Soho on property tycoons, greedy ones, like Paul Raymond who has in my street alone turned a baker, a butcher and an Italian delicatessen into dirty bookshops.
Also, with the arrival recently of this ridiculous thing called political correctness that has turned homosexuality into a cult, the place now is seething with shaven- headed, tough poofs who call themselves gay and who demand special treatment, while four years ago I was not allowed to buy a drink in the Swiss Tavern because I wasn't gay.
At one time it had a sort of disgusting charm and a revolting ambience that could be quite fascinating for about 30 minutes. That was when it was run by a Yorkshire- man called Charlie Stephenson, who start- ed life as a bookmaker's runner, had reputedly done time for GBH and is now knocking back his brandies in Spain. He was awful but I couldn't help liking him.
It was a typical morning when he came downstairs and found one of his regular customers dead in a corner of the bar from the night before and then was paid a visit by the local health inspector who asked him did he have any mice on the premises, to which Charlie told him no, the rats had eaten them all. He wasn't a very good salesman either and when strangers came in at lunchtime and asked to see the menu he would hand it to them saying, 'It's not compulsory, you know.' His barman was called Black Bob because he was so dirty. The rate at which we drank in there was phenomenal, mainly because of the round system of buying drinks. No one wanted to seem mean so drinks would always come up before you had finished your previous one, and Bob, one memorable day, put all my glasses of Ricard into a pint beer glass which looked rather frightening, turning it into a forgettable day. Drinking in overtime one night, my good friend Graham, just being wicked, refused to give me our doctor's telephone number when I had run out of insulin. I knocked him off his bar stool and as he lay on the floor I thought I would get barred, but to my surprise Charlie walked round from behind the bar and gave the prostrate Gra- ham an almighty kick. In those days, and it wasn't long ago, I used to go in there in the morning sometimes before opening time for a 'heart starter' and Charlie, looking disgusting in his pyjamas and dressing- gown, would be behind the bar drinking all his brandies, adding milk to them, that he had left over from the night before.
He told me once that whenever he moved pubs it never cost him a penny. He always kept with him a tea-chest full of bro- ken china so that when he arrived at his new residence he would blame the removal men for having smashed the dinner services so that they would not and could not charge him for the job. One awful Christ- mas I had Christmas Day lunch with him and he and his wife went upstairs after- wards for a kip. Entering into the pub's fes- tive spirit I then screwed his mad daughter on the floor of the saloon bar. When Char- lie found out I thought I would at least get beaten up by him, but he took me aside and offered me £200 to marry her, and when I had the gall to say no he took a look at his mad little girl and said, 'Make it three.'
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