Low life
Good for a laugh
Jeffrey Bernard
Anyway, I am risking the bet because I believe Loch Nessie to be a case of public wishful thinking. After all, a monster would make good newspaper reading and would be a marvellous change from the usual political nonsenses. But what my friend and I need is a panel of judges who can tell the difference between an eel and a fresh-water whale.
If I do lose £500 I shall probably never return from Kenya, although earning a living out there does pose problems. And that's bad enough here where I only have one more night where I am staying. Tomorrow the pants and socks along with the ghastly Monica Olympia will be on another London safari and God alone knows where we will end up. Although I say it myself I think I am doing frightfully well in rejecting the idea of retreating into a nervous breakdown. I have tried a couple of them and although the authorities are more or less obliged to take care of you in the way only they can, a nervous break- down does leave one feeling fearfully exhausted. I know just how awful Oscar Wilde must have felt coming downstairs for breakfast after he had sat up all night looking after a flower because it had looked to him to be so ill.
Yes, in spite of the absence of any domesticity to speak of I am somehow surviving. In fact I don't think I have wept for two months now and even then it was chemically induced. The thought of going to Kenya next month, rather like an ante-post bet, is a good reason to keep hanging on in there. Which reminds me, I searched in Foyles yesterday for a copy of James Fox's book White Mischief and eventually found it in the fiction section. Next door in Waterstone's my Low Life book was in the reference section. Most books, not mine, are far too precious to be peddled by booksellers.
And with books in mind I availed myself of the 5-1 on offer with most bookmakers about Peter Ackroyd winning the wretched Booker Prize. I really hope he does. He was always so good for a laugh when he was on The Spectator, never mind the quality of his writing which is alpha plus. And being good for a laugh — whatever that means — is quite common among Journalists but not with many of the writers of books I have met. There are exceptions to that, of course. I met William Rees- Mogg at a party once and he reminded me of the end-of-term talks my prep school headmaster used to give us. Also I have never seen anything quite so intense and serious as the sight of Bernard Levin carefully stuffing take-away cream cakes into his briefcase in a Marylebone patisser- ie. He was very nearly furtive.
It is quite extraordinary what fame does to some people, though, isn't it? Norman is now very nearly certifiable and I think some of the blame has to fall on Michael Heath and myself. He is now not only Immortal but possibly the best stand-up comedian since lack Benny. It's real theatre behind that bar and every time he opens his mouth to say something really witty like 'F— off, you're barred,' I feel like giving him a standing ovation. Roll on Kenya and the country clubs.
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