Low life
The uses of literacy
Jeffrey Bernard
I took it for about ten minutes and then I cracked. I leapt at him — I thought my athletic days were long gone — banged him up against the wall and started to strangle him. Graham and another friend couldn't pull me off easily and then Graham had a brainwave and hit the man a tremendous whack over his head with the dictionary which was to hand. What a bang. It sounded like sinking a fencing post into the ground with a sledgehammer. So the drunk and his friend were slung out and peace reigned again, disturbed only by the snores of the bar staff.
The following day I was told that the drunk and his friend had made an instant beeline after the event to the Colony Room Club. In there he started insulting people again and then he tried to buy everybody a drink. They were so sickened by him that they all refused the offer — a historic moment in the history of that club. And then he was thrown out of there too. I gather the man writes obituaries and I would say that he should start on his own should anyone be daft enough to want to publish it. Dear oh dear, loutishness is not confined to soccer fans. There is a middle-class coherent hooliganism. The fellow probably got into his office on Monday morning and told his colleagues that he had had a marvellous weekend. Thank God that sort of thing doesn't happen often. Usually being in the pub is so quiet that it is like lying in the long grass listening to the bees buzzing. And now I read that the breweries have launched a scheme to teach publicans how to spot trouble when it walks in. It is full of fatuous hints. If you can't spot a lunatic, psychopath or trouble-maker after the age of 21 then you have no business running or managing a pub. A man came in a couple of weeks ago and one look in his eyes told me that something nasty was about to happen. True enough. Within five minutes he had exposed himself. I was more disgusted than I thought I would be. I suppose a man who exposes himself is making a gesture of contempt for the poor woman or man who has to see it. I managed to get him thrown out — but he will be back. I shall have to get Graham some bigger and heavier books for these people.
But all these things have been piddling diversions in the middle of my great obsession, the play. I can think of little else and will doubtless be a crashing bore about it at least until the opening night at the Apollo. The publicity machine is running smoothly. O'Toole, Waterhouse, Sherrin and myself assembled for another photo call on Monday for the Telegraph Maga- zine and however disgusting I may turn out to look in it the picture will have to be framed for any future Bernards, God help them. And now back to bed to dream more dreams about first nights.
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