Low life
Willing
Jeffrey Bernard
I read somewhere last week that there are 3 million widows in this country but only 800,000 widowers and it's a statistic that's been preying on my mind ever since I spotted it. Furthermore, the dreadful noise of hammering coming at this moment from the flat beneath me leads me to suspect that the old cow is at last banging hubby up in 3 coffin. You know it's a frightening thought to consider just how those very cheerful looking widows have actually managed to end up basking in it at Bournemouth with a man's lifetime earnings all tucked up in the bank. Of course, It always known that women are not only truly dreadful but reallY dangerous but now, although I'm not married at the moment, this new information has prompted me to buy a will form from Smiths and I've been idly filling it in at the Coach and Horses between interruptions from Jeremy who's now barred from the Cadogan Arms as well as the Queen's Elm. Brendan couldn't manage to wait for me to die it seems so I've had to give him an advance copy, as it were, of The History of the Derby Stakes by Roger Mortimer. Anyway, a man who picks such a good book shouldn't be kept waiting.
So here we are, at least here I am, in the afternoon of my life — although my doctor disagrees, claiming it's much later — the sun being well under the yard arm again, and I'm puzzling as how best to dispose of my worldly goods. Worldly is pretty apt. Looking around this flat I can't see a lot that would fetch anything outside a flea market. But who gets what? Well, I thought Brendan might like the carpets too although there's the odd cigarette burn in them. It would double glaze his, so to speak. My books on love, aggression, depression, feminism, alcoholism and psychology I think will have to go to the Guardian women's page to enable them to write some really funny pieces, and my records I'll leave to Richard Ingrams so that he can hear some good music for the first time in his life. These bequests will only materialise of course if the bailiffs don't beat me to it. My famous collection of Dear Jeff Please Don't Try To Contact Me Again letters are an education in themselves and must go to a girls' school.
My bed I shall leave to a lunatic asylum and you can work that one out for yourselves. As for the kitchen equipment I'll leave that to Trust House Forte in the hope that they might learn to cook with it. Ideally I'd like this document to be witnessed by a few Fleet Street editors so that they could at last get their names into Somerset House. Unfortunately I've had to opt for Jeremy who's sitting next to me and vainly attempting to delay matters by sipping cider and not the hard stuff.
What I do have a lot of to leave are regrets and I suppose I can only leave them to you, dear reader. One of the biggest ones Is the most recent and it's that Ian Botham didn't manage to get Lady Diana Spencer to the altar. That, I think, would have pulled us out of the recession and made us great again. Then there's forgetting to cancel the milk when I went to Greece, and I deeply regret never ever having killed a publican, taxi driver, solicitor or social worker. Speaking of killing, they didn't say how many more spinsters there are than bachelors. I mean, a single chap like me can just as easily get a good nudge towards the grave from a spinster as a man from a wife. In fact I've had some blatant shoves. But all that remains I think is to pick the spot. I've promised Norman not to pop off in the Coach because it would be bad for business and I don't fancy dropping in Gerrard Street to end up as just a number on a menu. The idea of dying whilst tenuously attached to a typewriter is pretty sickening, but a betting shop might be where the sting lies. Really, I suppose, the best thing is simply to go to the funeral people and give myself up.
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