Low life
Christmas offerings
Jeffrey Bernard
But it isn't just slow payments that annoy me at this time of year; it is the way news- papers phone up every day for quotes on the subject of Christmas, hangover cures, drunk-driving and even family values. This way newspaper editors can damn nigh fill a paper for nothing, and I resent helping staff writers with sinecures to earn their liv- ings. As for drunk-driving in the aftermath of office parties, whether held in the office or pub, I put the telephone down too quickly. I meant to say that all drinkers should be in possession of a certificate signed by a publican or club owner stating that the bearer is not just a Christmas, once-a-year drinker. Heaven save me from those and disability has done just that.
The other journalistic chore is to write a piece every year for a newspaper on the subject of 'My best or most awful Christ- mas ever'. At least one is paid for that, and mercifully everybody forgets that you wrote the very same piece the year before. Thankfully this year's offering has been accepted. To be asked for one's New Year resolutions can also be the yawn of the month. I don't make resolutions and, any- way, who cares? I just have wishes and dreams, one of them being that Virginia Bottomley disappears into total obscurity in 1994. Even the district nurses who come to see me are depressed by the very thought of her. It is a pity, I am beginning to think, that this country isn't run by the over-the-top Francis Urquhart. The last episode of the series had me in stitches as the Chairman and his tasty blond media advisor were blown up, and he says to cam- era, 'It's happening all over the world.' What prime minister we have known could have got away with having a dolly, intellec- tual mistress like Urquhart's? Harold Wil- son looked like the cat that had swallowed the cream but he may have been smiling over recollections of just having downed a couple of pints with some naïve trades unionists. Maybe Lloyd George, but he wasn't very prepossessing. A nice touch in the final episode was dressing Urquhart's wife, Lady Macbeth, in a tartan dress.
The programme preceding To Play The King, The Great Commanders, has up till now disappointed this military history freak. Long-held stills of busts of Alexan- der and Julius Caesar plus ears of barley blowing in breezes where once battles were fought were just not good enough. Then not enough emphasis was put on just how much of a shit Napoleon was. After that, the charm and genius of Nelson was not well served by diagrams of his two lines cutting the French and Spanish fleets at Trafalgar. Next week one of my favourites — Ulysses Grant — and thank heavens that ghastly war was fought at the time of photography. There are bound to be a load of quotes about Grant's drinking habits, but it is to be hoped that the producer will also remember that Lincoln once said, 'I like Grant. He fights.' So many pored over maps and procrastinated. It is also to Lin- coln's credit that when someone tried to grass about Grant's drinking, Lincoln said, 'Give me the name of the brand he drinks and send a barrel to each of my generals.' As those two programmes finish by Christ- mas, it is to be hoped that the absolutely fabulous Joanna Lumley will have a stab at our first female prime minister. Norman can play Rommel in More Great Comman- ders.
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