Low life
Mein Kampf
Jeffrey Bernard
Ihave just had to bale out of Berlin where I have been attempting a magazine piece on the wretched place. We should have waited until the spring. It was 20 degrees below when I arrived there last Sunday and still slowly dropping when I telephoned my doctor who confirmed that I was mad and said go home and stay there. The only good thing to have come out of this weather is the fact that it has replaced Aids at the top of the topics of conversa- tion chart. But it was impossible to see anything in Berlin to write home about. You don't get the feel of a place if you're wearing glasses in a blizzard. So I spent most of the time sitting in a very good cafe reminiscent of one or two I know in Greenwich Village. There was evidence to suggest that it may be a rendezvous point for Bader Meinhoff terrorists. There was piped classical music — all the Vivaldi that any student could wish for and very nice too — very hard-looking women accompa- nied by dirty and aggressive babies and a lot of men who looked like Lenin and who seemed to be drawing plans on odd pieces of paper at their tables.
The babies were really dreadful, though, and I've had them up to here. Mothers should deposit them in the cloakroom when they come into cafes and restaurants and they are awful on aeroplanes too, where they should be put into the luggage compartments for the duration. All the babies I have seen since winter arrived are dressed up to look like bunny rabbits with runny noses. Of course they shouldn't be allowed out until they are 16 years old and then only for very short bursts. I also resent being hypnotised by their oral activi- ties. As soon as they open their mouths their mothers put something into them. Almost anything will be accepted as long as it is sticky or made of rubber. They're like little pedal bins. You just wiggle a toe or a finger and hey presto they open their mouths. And speaking of mouths, don't those Germans keep shoving food into theirs? I found the helpings in restaurants hugely off-putting. I ordered pork chops in one place and got half a pig. But the Germans are waging a great counter- offensive against the Asti people. As far as I could see they are chain smokers to a man. (A friend of mine who came over here as a refugee in the 1930s tells me that the Storm Troopers were useful to small boys who collected cigarette cards. How nice.) Anyway, a wasted three days in Berlin and for nothing. I couldn't even find Norman — whose birthday it was the day I came home — a picture postcard of Hitler. His sense of humour is sometimes a trifle perverse for a Jew. Now, here he is after 60 glorious years. His old mum, unaware of what she was saying, told me, 'Yes, I'll never forget the day Norman was born. It was Friday the 13th.' Say no more. But she did. She went on to tell me what a good little boy he was. It's a disgusting thought. I wonder at what age he developed the devilish cunning that enabled him to find a catering shop that sells dinner plates that have a diameter one inch less than the standard ones used in most restaurants. At least he has taken to buying drinks now that he is famous. The change that has come over him is fascinating to watch. When I met him first he was a depressive. After a bit of publicity he became a manic depressive and now he is a paranoid manic depressive. Waving a copy of this or some other magazine at his customers the other day he walked up and down the bar shouting, 'I'm immortal. I'm immortal.' I sometimes look at him and think that we hacks have created a monster whom we can no longer control. He, poor fool, sees it the other way around.
And by the way, you can see him on Friday night on Arena. Readers have written to me saying that they don't believe he exists but I'm afraid he does and there he will be on Friday night at 9.30 p.m. On BBC2 alongside yours truly. I dread it myself. We got steadily more pissed as the filming progressed and it probably shows. Still it will come as no surprise and I expect assassination attempts from those critics who might bother to watch it. Any non- sense certainly isn't the fault of the sainted director or editor. And now I am going to Mothercare to buy myself a bunny-rabbit suit and just let the nose keep on running.
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