Low life
Party pris
Jeffrey Bernard
God preserve us from the Christmas office party. Almost any party. I liked them when I was younger and used to go along in the hope of leaving them at the end of the day with a one-night stand. Now, I am delighted if I can procure a taxi to take me home at the end of the thrash. Anyway, I only know of three men capable of giving a good party and they are Charles St George, Peter Walwyn and Robert Sangster. Why they should all be racing men I don't quite know although a day at the races frequently develops into an alfresco party.
Oh for those bygone summer days. Now I am faced with newspaper and magazine parties which I detest. So why am I going to one tonight? It is probably an uncon- scious desire to keep 'in touch' with all those awful people who say, 'We must have lunch one day,' or, 'You must write something for us soon,' and who you never hear from again.
Nevertheless I have at last stopped knocking the business of Christmas. In fact, even living alone as I do, I am considering buying a small Christmas tree and putting it in front of my television set to block out the millionth screenings of The Magnificent Seven and The Sound of Music plus the awful Terry Wogan et al. My daughter is coming over for lunch and so is an old friend who I kibitz with in the Coach and Horses. I sit here wondering what my ex-wives will be doing. Never mind. They have now fallen on better feet than mine.
One good thing about this year is that no one has asked me to write a Christmas piece. It used to be obligatory in Fleet Street for hacks to do so. On one newspap- er I worked for some years ago the editor would walk around the open-plan office like a schoolmaster supervising prep asking all the writers, 'Have you done your Christmas piece yet?' My annual contribu- tion was always the one about waking up on Christmas Day morning flat broke in a Camden Town doss-house with nowhere to go. It makes me yawn now to think about it.
Another awful thing about these Christ- mas office parties can be coming face to face with a hackette or secretary that you featured with 20 years ago. Embarrassing for both parties but less so for the one with the worse memory. There are women who have etched in their eyes the unspoken question, 'Why didn't you telephone?'
I suppose one thing that can be faintly amusing to observe at these dos are the hacks who, because of the season and the unfamiliar booze that goes with it, are compelled to tell their bosses home truths. Mike Molloy got so fed up with getting that when he became editor of the Daily Mirror that he had to stop going into the pub and I am afraid I have to plead guilty in his case. Thank God I don't do that any more. I don't have to. Editors can tell perfectly well just what I think of them when I give them a wintry smile.
And now, of graver consideration than an office party is the second Test Match starting on Boxing Day in Australia. Alan Lee has made a good point in the Times. England don't need to work harder or make more effort, that would be like asking a sick man to run round the block. All we need is to find some quality. I shall be glued to Radio 3 listening to the commentary, cracking walnuts, eating sat- sumas and left-over goose. But I draw the line at paper hats. And a happy Christmas to both my readers.
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