Low life
Unbearable
Jeffrey Bernard
My own personal and painful problems have recently been put firmly into the back seat of my mind by the extraordinary affair of the ghastly pandas, and the publicity afforded the final scientific summing up of the Turin Shroud which has obscured the mystery of the Soho Shroud or, to put it more precisely, the mystery of the rain-coat discovered in the cellar of the French pub after 30 years. For these diversions I am extremely grateful. No longer do I amble miserably from bar to bar contemplating my eagerness to mate with the opposite sex. Now, I stare into my glass and think in awe of Chia-Chia, an animal famous for its reluctance to do just that. At night no longer do I stare into the blackness that is the ceiling wondering what life, as I know it now, will be like when they take my Barclaycard away and auction my belongings, I lie there puzzling as to who once lived in the Soho Shroud. It's too long for Dylan Thomas, too narrow for Cyril Connolly, not quite posh enough for dear old Maurice Richardson and not wide enough for my old mate Frank Norman. While I wait for the scientific verdict my thoughts yet again turn to the black-eyed, Chinese idiot who, with the entire zoological world pimping on his behalf, just doesn't want to know.
Mind you, Chinese is the key word. Recent observations in Gerrard Street have proved to me that the Chinese are an extremely prudish and squeamish lot when it comes to almost anything apart from losing their money in betting shops or attacking customers with meat cleavers who can't pay for their duck and rice. And yet there are millions of them and that's the paradox. Informed sources (two secretaries at the Spectator) tell me that there are millions of them simply because the men either want to show off or, for example, in the case of farmers, get hold of a cheaper work force. ChiaChia obviously doesn't come into either category and so we must conclude that pandas simply can't bear sex, though occasionally when they're prompted to perpetuate their species they close their eyes and think of China.
Another informed source at Doughty Street has conjectured that Ching-Ching has been brain washed by Ms Erin Pizzey and so regards Chia-Chia's rather flaccid overtures as downright physical assault of the kind not to be desired. Whatever the truth Chia-Chia had better look to his laurels if he doesn't want to suffer the fate of MiraIgo. Now Miralgo was a pretty fair racehorse some years ago, but when he was eventually retired to the Irish National Stud he used to abuse himself against the wall of the box in an attempt to blind himself and was shot for his efforts.
There is another thing that occurs to me: has Chia-Chia just got a tremendous sense of humour? I have noticed on rare occassions during my own bizarre life that a really big belly laugh can diminish the libido no end and according to Mr Samstag, panda expert of The Times, these cuddly toys are a bunch of clowns. Get this: 'Modern tales are told of giant pandas joining flocks of sheep and sleeping with them in the barn, stealing workmen's lunches in the fields, stealing clothes from washing lines and generally behaving like clowns.' In panda language I suspect that Chia-Chia has an unfortunate tendency to crack jokes at the wrong moment and I still wince to think of the one time I attempted the same jolly approach mounting a colleague at the annual office party at one of the many magazines I helped to close down.
But enough of me. Yet another informed source, an actress who frequents the Coach and Horses, has suggested medicinal remedies. Gensing is the stuff she swears by and she tries to get all her men friends hooked on it and says it turns harmless boys into raving sex maniacs. I'm surprised that no bright spark at the London Zoo has thought of the possibility that the happy couple might simply loathe each other. Even I once met a woman I loathed and believe this can happen to people in all walks of life. But, when all's said and done, I think it may be a little unfair to put all the blame at Chia-Chia's door. Suppose ChingChing is a secret Woman's Page Guardian reader? This could mean the end of pandas as we know them and good riddance. I don't actually know but I suspect they stink to high heaven and have a mean disposition as well. Never trust a bear that isn't cuddly.
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