Low life
Unsolved mysteries
Jeffrey Bernard
0 ne of the great mysteries of this life to me, on a par with the Five Orange Pips and the Solitary Cyclist, is just how the hell did Joanna Lumley get on the judging panel for the Booker Prize. The business of asking actors and actresses for their opin- ions on matters political, literary, artistic, meaningful and/or important has reached ludicrous proportions. Some of my best friends are actors and actresses but I know men like Dennis the Chest and Jimmy the Spiv who have managed to keep their heads above water for 40 of the severest winters on the British Turf whose opinions I'd value a damn sight more than Joanna Lumley's and I include the subject of acting. Next thing you know Ms Lumley will be sharing a desk on the Arts Council with the very reverend Claire Tomalin. Anyway, I hope they give it to Iris Mur- doch. Heaven knows she must need £15,000 desperately and probably hasn't had a decent meal in her belly for months. That dreadful man Jeffrey Archer will probably end up with the Order of Merit and Joanna Lumley would have been much more suitable for that job. Why Mrs Thatcher hasn't sounded me out is a matter as beyond belief as someone turning water into wine. You never know, there's prob- ably a knighthood in the pipeline for Derek Nimmo.
The world has definitely gone mad and I think God has got a little bored with this his toy. Earthquakes, Aids, Joanna Lum- ley and now I think I may have Aids. When I looked into the mirror this morning to say hello to myself I looked so haggard, skinny and ghastly I resolved to telephone Dr Kurtz at the Middlesex. But where the hell did I get it from? I did have a small affair with a woman who has a penchant for rough trade so I suppose it was that. But what worries me more than Aids is the fact that we are approaching the pneumonia and pleurisy season and I don't think I could take it for a third time on the trot. I would very much appreciate it if some kind Spectator reader could lend me a spare
house in Australia or the West Indies for the next three months or so. Of course I'd like to take Joanna Lumley with me but she will probably be busy choosing the Nobel Peace Prize winner. If I can't get away I shall lock myself indoors, keep the fire on 24 hours a day, employ an au pair girl from anywhere barring Scandinavia and work like a dog.
And come to think of it, just how does a dog work, except a gun dog? Have you ever seen a skunk drunk or a newt pissed? No. I have to my horror in the past seen many seriously sober judges but I have never seen a man built like a brick shit- house or a man with arms like tree trunks. Where do these phrases originate? Prob- ably from Joanna Lumley who by now has read all the Booker Prize entries `from cover to cover' and been 'unable to put one down' in which case her arms must be `feeling like lead'. Yes, apart from Bermu- da shorts, tights and socks with sandals, taking oneself seriously must be the unsex- iest thing on earth. Now in the unlikely event of Martyn Goff asking me to sit on the Booker Prize panel I would demur because I like the word – and then allow myself to be talked into it for a fat fee under a pseudonym like Bernard Levin or Jonathan Miller.
But much more important than the Booker Prize and writing novels is the business of racing and I think the Jockey Club should appoint Joanna Lumley to the Disciplinary Committee at Portman Square and also make her a steward at Newmarket this Saturday for the running of the Dubai Champion Stakes. Of course, it's all sour grapes on my part. I can't tell you how sick I am of being a boy in a man's world. Sorry, I mean a woman's world. Dear God, how I hate people who don't love me.
By the way, talking of Joanna Lumley, isn't it just right and typical that the United States of America is run by an actor?
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