Low life
Life of Riley
Jeffrey Bernard
In a couple of weeks made black and blue by the continuing survival of Idi Amin, a press award to the hideous John McCririck of the Sporting Life, the death blow to the Cup hopes of Ipswich and a pedal bone fracture to Gay Spartan, there have been two news items of an uplifting nature. God dangled two carrots in front of me last week and I've decided to renew the onward plod. First, there was the new world record of alcohol found in human blood. Mr Sam Riley, 56, of Sefton Park, laid down his life in the creation of the record and, at the same time, broke the 1,000 milligram per 100 Millilitres-of-blood barrier. Between Dionysus and Robert Newton there must have been thousands of attempts on the record, particularly, I imagine, by Russians and Scandinavians, but I'm tremendously Proud that it should have been an Englishman who cracked it.
• There's only one sour note that jangles a bit and that was the remark made by the -Coroner, Mr Roy Barter, at Riley's inquest. He recorded a verdict of 'accidental death' and the use of the word accidental smacks of sour grapes to me. Only once have I been Into a pub accidentally and that was to The Mitre just off Hatton Garden where I went t.0 get a watch strap mistaking it for a Jeweller's. Riley's brother, George, giving evidence at the inquest added that the record-holder was a known alcoholic who lived alone and who drank as much as two bottles of whisky a day. That's another odd choice of word. You'd be hard pushed not to be 'known' if you drank two bottles a day and God knows how you'd do that accidentally. I'd be very suprised if Mr Riley thought be was drinking something else, although I did once meet a Turk in Islington who drank a bottle of whisky with every meal mistakenly thinking it was what he called 'English wine.'
No, we must give credit where credit's due — I imagine Mr Riley must have had quite a lot of credit —and I hope you will join me in raising your next glass to a man who has finally heard the call for last orders.
The other bit of news that decided me not to give up the struggle was that of the industrial tribunal in.vestigating the goings on at a jeweller's shop in Mansfield. A boy shop assistant was partly stripped by a counter girl who then bit him all over his back, and horseplay involved shopgirls and the manager rolling on the floor with their clothes disarranged. Best of all were the episodes involving what was called 'the crutch lift'. A Miss Stockdale developed this lift by putting her hands between Mr Bowskill's legs and lifting him up. They used to do this to each other every day and all I can say is that it all sounds a lot more interesting than the goings on at the offices of the Spectator or any other place of business I attend, although I imagine that the skeleton staff at the Sunday Times must be racking their brains for some sort of occupation. My own experience of shops and offices and the like are deadly dull. I did once, with the help of a female assistant, get my clothing tangled in a Moviola in a Shepperton cutting room and there was the unfortunate incident involving the editor's secretary on a now defunct publication, but never have I been in the enviable if uncomfortable position of the shop manager, Mr Bowskill.
One hears so much depressing talk of this country's trouble nowadays and most of the blame is placed firmly at the feet of management and one can see why. There is a complete lack of communication. No liaison. Why weren't Mr Riley and Mr Bowskill brought together? Riley was an alcoholic living alone who probably needed a job and, by the sound of things, would have fitted in very nicely at the shop in Mansfield. As it is, they never met. Had they done so I imagine all kinds of assaults might have been made on a variety of world records. At the moment, I'm not quite sure what the record for a crutch lift under the influence of alcohol stands at but it would, presumably, have to be worked out on a complicated ratio involving weight lifted per 100 milligrams of alcohol per 100 millilitres-of-blood. This could have been text-book stuff and a very jolly way of teaching schoolboys chemistry and mechanics at the same time.
Obviously what's needed in this country is some sort of industrial personnel watch dog who'd see to it that the likes of Mr. Riley should be employed in places like the Mansfield jeweller's shop. Failing that, those of us with similar bents should identify to each other by wearing T-shirts inscribed with phrases such as 'I AM A VERY SILLY PERSON'. We must stick together.
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