Low life
Better luck next time
Jeffrey Bernard
It is odd that in spite of the grief I can feel about the human race and the likes of Paul Potts I didn't really like him all that much. But likes and dislikes don't really come into it. His brain seethed, he exuded a troubled turmoil and he was steeped in anguish. He was also a bloody nuisance. In his manic moments, when he wasn't mourning the fate of the Jews and the Irish, when someone like Simon Asquith — now another 'also ran' — had given him a handout, he could be a very potty Potts indeed. Sometimes he was a figure of fun and it was cruel to tease him. But he came out with some corkers on a par with 'Bird thou never wert'. Immortal for me are two of his lines which read, 'If you are walking to the moon,/I have clean socks for you.' He didn't but that is beside the point. He meant well, that's all, and probably wanted to be a saint.
On one occasion when he was in funds he ate three consecutive meals in Jimmy the Greek's at one sitting, which feat should be in the Guinness Book of Rec- ords. And appropriately since Guinness was his favourite tipple. At another time, in the days when I drank halves of bitter, he spent all afternoon in the Caves de France buying me large whiskies plus five tins of Benson and Hedges just because they were the most expensive cigarettes he could find.
He came to supper once in my more domestic days and stole a rather good silk tie from me. The next day, in the French pub, he had the nerve to be wearing it. When I pointed out to him that it was mine he began to scream obscenities at me. It was very silly of me but I was very young at that time. He would be welcome' to my wardrobe now but it is too late. A pity he has settled for a shroud. I thought that one of the saddest things about Paul was his infinite capacity to fall in love with women who were unable to return it. Hence the title, 'Dante Called You Beatrice'. Women were his unslept-in bed of nails.
Perhaps my gloom distorts it all for he certainly had jolly times and good friends like Edward Williams and Michael Law and more recently Marilyn Thorrold who cared for him. Broke as he was Muriel Belcher always welcomed him in the Col- ony Room and altogether I remember times of loud laughter. Sadly, what is more indelible are the times when Paul and I sat for hours in the Café Torrino ekeing out cups of tea and hoping that someone would come in and pay for them. He hated the Italian who owned the place, Mr Minelli, because he was a fascist in the true meaning of the word. When our boats came in — his was usually the Titanic — we lashed out with chicken risottos. He de- served better treats than that. On occasion I saw him stop in the street, gaze heaven- wards and scream with his rage. But he wasn't potty. That was fair enough. He got dealt some lousy cards.
I am going to stop reading the Times. As Maurice Richardson once said to me, 'I don't look at the obituaries any more. They have lost their charm for me.' It doesn't matter about the silk tie any more and it never did.
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