Low life
Grog blossom
Jeffrey Bernard Idozed off after a lunch in the Groucho Club one day last week and when I awoke I found that Sue Townsend had left me a nicely inscribed copy of her book, Adrian Mole: From Minor to Major, by my side. I opened it at random and read one of young Master Mole's entries which was a one- liner saying, 'I am having a nervous break- down. Nobody has noticed yet.' Oh, I know the feeling. Or at least I used to know it years ago.
The next morning we had a farewell
drink together. Sue lives in Leicester, and we said we both felt that one's childhood was one long nervous breakdown. Mine lasted until I was able to escape school. It is odd that most parents assume that their children are more or less blissfully happy. There is such a lot they don't notice.
And talking of childhood we discovered that we had been and still are addicted to rivers and streams Sadly for Sue. some- body has dumped a rusty old car in her stream, as people will. Mine probably dried up years ago. It ran by a ruined Norman castle near Peterchurch in Herefordshire. The edges of it were all watercress and but- tercups and even on the hottest summer days it ran icy cold and clear and we cupped our hands and drank deep of it. Where could you or would you dare to drink from a stream today?
And the great game was to build dams. I still think of drinking that water now when I wake up in the heat and anxiety of the night and light my umpteenth cigarette of the day. How odd it seemed to he sitting in a club bar and talking to Mrs Mole about playing and picnicking by streams.
Something Sue said reminded me of a childhood daymare almost as had as a nightmare, which was to imagine I was doomed to spend my life serving behind the counter in an ironmonger's shop. You have to wear a brown coat for that and put up with the smells of creosote and turpen- tine. 'A pound of three-inch nails? Certain- ly, madam. And here is your galvanised bucket.' I wonder why ironmongers should have first struck terror and boredom into me.
But I waffle, and we did, and a nice change it made from the usual bar talk. The day hadn't started all that well. I received a letter from the Health Educa- tion Authority about an anti-alcohol cam- paign they arc launching to persuade young people not to take to it like so many ducks to water. They want a slogan or two for their posters and a black and white photo- graph of me looking awful to hold up to the youth of England so as to warn them about what 'just the one' can do to a man's face.
I don't mind. My appearance has become a source of copy to journalists and just a few days ago Peter Tory, writing in the Daily Express, headed his piece 'Facing the
Awful Truth'. An old library picture was captioned, 'Bernard as he was in the Six- ties' and a recent picture was captioned, 'Now... Bernard's decline is a sad sight'. Well, it may he a sad sight in the shaving mirror but I don't see why it should be to anybody else.
But what is the point in warning young people about the evils of alcohol? They know them already and can see them every
day in the streets or in the House of Com- mons when they are sitting. I have never
taken a peck into the House of Lords but I should imagine there are a few grog blos- soms in there too.
Previous page
