Low life
Down-payment
Jeffrey Bernard
Thursday. Bryce McNab's funeral went off as well as a funeral can. I arrived at Golders Green a little early so was lucky enough to have time for a couple of fortifying drinks in a ghastly pub there. Six or seven people came in in the space of 20 minutes and askeu the barman the way to the crematorium. They must have a tremendous turnover their ovens and I wondered if the place:: privately owned or what. Anyway, profit must be considerable and the cost ot dying is going up all the time. Walking away, from the place with Gaston Berlemont afte the service we both considered that We might as well have stayed there to await our turn. Up north, they say cemeteries are always at the bottom of a hill and lha,tf there's not much point in walking up agairli:t you're middle-aged or more. For a SP3'f second I'm overcome with a sense ° responsibility and wonder how to leav,e, provision for my own funeral. It would(' be fair to lumber my poor brother with thet expense, a whip-round in Soho MO produce embarrassingly little so I decide rel leave an ante-post voucher on Wnivelor Heights for this year's Derby. I near't) forgot. There was one fairly nasty monle;,11;i In the committal prayer the presiding Pr''''" uttered a sentence that went, 'The righlaalsshall live forever.' I immediately thoug? ht et Bernard Levin and my heart sank a Val deeper. Friday. Off to Newbury races. A fantasti,c day, like a real summer's one. Old faces arre old friends were drinking alfresco paddock bar and not even a 25-Year4°ng brush with reality could dampen my optimism. My first selection was a slightly disappointing fourth, but Lester rescued me in the next on Brave Hussar. After that I Joined Robert Sangster's table in the luncheon room. At that gathering they were quaffing Louis Roederer by the bucketful While I stuck to my usual. Someone told me it was bad manners not to drink what the rest of the party drinks. Why? Mayn't I Prefer cigarettes to cigars either? They do go on about the silliest things some of these People, and,' heard a classic later on in the downstairs bar. It seems a trainer's wife walked into a Lambourn pub with her small Child and baby. Another trainer's wife who was already ensconced looked up and said, 'Oh darling, how frightfully brave of you to come out without a nanny. They are arilazing, aren't they? Where have they been living? After a successful and jolly day at the races I went back with the Sangsters and Barry Hills to the yard at Southbank Where Barry walked us round and showed Sangster his horses. Again there was a tang of optimism in the air. Back in the house and everyone at the bubbly again. I wish I could open a credit account as easily as Barry can open a bottle of that stuff. Saturday. Back to London loathing British Rail more and more by the mile. The catering division of BR needs kicking. Back in Soho I apply myself to the trade of doing nothing. After Newbury the business of Writing out a betting slip in a pub is quite depressing, as were the results. Even worse IS the business of weekend shopping and staggering around after a few drinks with six Carrier bags and the nagging feeling that I've left the meat in the Yorkminsttr. A supermarket accepted a cheque with a card but they wanted my address on the back. Utter nonsense. If I'd written Chatsworth, Derbyshire on the back they'd have been none the wiser. Neither would they if I'd written 981, *Upper Street, Islington. The Cheque book remains a subject of mystery and terror to the English and I half hope the Cheques will bounce remembering Oscar's adage, 'It is only by not paying one's bills that one can hope to live in the memory of the commercial classes.' The day gets worse. The only soccer team I've ever taken any interest in Ipswich Town, is knocked out of the Cup and, later still, the righteous Miss Ellie makes it up with her moronic husband, Jock. The entire day calls for a gigantic night cap and gets it. Sunday. The morning starts off with a typical and feminine smart arse crack. I'm looking at an advertisement in one of the Colour 'nags that shows a picture of the Taj Mahal. The lady looking over my shoulder says, 'If you built a monument to the woman you loved it would be a pub, kitchen it?' Deeply hurt I retire to the and spend the morning trying to produce a Persian meal — chicken cooked In orange with saffron, pistachio nuts, Peppers and anything that hits the fancy, Fitts rice. Rather good. The bill with wine or two — an afternoon of near silence.
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