Low life
With Bonk and Basher
Jeffrey Bernard
The first night of the play in Cardiff with Dennis Waterman went very well and would have been better for me if I hadn't had to leave at the interval. Something went wrong with the insulin and I had to stagger off to get some grub. As usual most people misinterpreted that. If I had not taken Deborah with me, by kind permis- sion of Richard Ingrams, I don't think I could have managed the trip to Wales and I have the horrible feeling that I may never be able to travel again unaccompanied.
The press, of course, wanted the last straw from their daft field day concerning us and they took loads of pictures of the two of us and several of me with Deborah on my right and Rula Lenska to my left. Glamour on each arm.
The hotel we were in, The Park, is one of the better provincial hotels I have stayed in and I recommend it if ever you have to go to Cardiff, which is not my idea of heaven. Late that night, as I lay brooding and chain-smoking in bed, they were serving champagne. Keith Waterhouse, I am told, took early retirement at 5 a.m. How I wish I still had such stamina. Years ago I used to drink the nights through with Frank Norman in the Stork Club and even then we would arrive at the York Minster for opening time. Insomnia does not give one the same zest.
The following morning we went to Lam- bourn to see Peter and Bonk Walwyn, the most delightful people in racing. What odd nicknames everyone in that business has. That evening I had drinks with not only Bonk but Basher, Crusty and Screamer. Even Peter is now called Basil since I com- pared him to Basil Fawlty some years ago in Private Eye. What stars he and Bonk are. Peter spoke of a runner he was sending to Leicester the next Saturday. I forgot about it when I got home and the bloody animal won at 25-1. To make matters worse I backed Give Us A Buck that day to win the Whitbread Gold Cup, which he did at 20-1 only to be placed second by the stewards. He certainly gave the runner-up and even- tual winner a hefty bump, but I still think he won on merit. I would, wouldn't I?
Anyway, Deborah went off to see the editor of the Oldie and I cried myself to sleep at Windsor House after an excellent supper. Bonk pulled my shoes off and left a large vodka, ice and soda on the bedside table. You can't ask for more even from your own wife and I've run out of them. In the morning, after they had ridden out both strings, Bonk drove me over to see my hero, Fred Winter.
All of this may sound pretty pedestrian to a non-racing man but it occurred to me that those 24 hours were like staying with Haydn and then going to have drinks with Mozart. Or, if you like, staying with Count Basie and then going to have cocktails with Duke Ellington. Fred Winter was and still is a great man. Brave and kind. Ever since he had his horrendous stroke and fall he has been unable to speak much and has to be helped when he walks. It is a terrible thing to happen to a man who has ridden two Grand National winners, trained two and won almost everything else worth win- ning. But there is still spark in him and he understands all that is being said.
His wife, Diana, has forgiven me for referring to her as Mrs Danvers in Private Eye in the old days. She was all smiles and I thought she hated me. She had even kept and gave me a scarf that I had left at their old yard 12 years ago. We drank and remi- nisced about Fred's halcyon days as a jock- ey and he sat there chuckling. Then we went to a pub for lunch. All the time I couldn't believe my luck in the company I was and had been keeping. As we left it brought a tear to my eye to say goodbye to Fred. I touched his arm and it felt like the lower branch of an oak tree. When I went to settle up the landlord said Diana had already paid. When I eventually got home the sight of Soho almost made me sick.
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