Low life
Unaccustomed as I am
Jeffrey Bernard
Television made one hell of a stink last Monday about it being the anniversary of Black Monday, the day of the Big Crash. My heart bled for the speculators, gamb- lers and yuppies who did their dough on the world markets and I expect hundreds upon hundreds of families compelled to live in bed and breakfast hotels fought to hold back their tears as well. It was the financial version of the Big Storm and thousands of glasses of gin and tonic must have been shattered in the Home Coun- ties. The suicide figures, though, were a disappointment. Sixth-floor windows all over the world must have been stuck.
My own most recent investment got unstuck at Newmarket last Saturday and was beaten by a neck. Norman bought me some salmon mousse from Harrods to cheer me up so it was really no worse than having to take a standing count. But the investment I would dearly like to have is a £10,000 double on Bush and Thatcher. Will one be around to collect on the second leg of that certainty? Hopefully. There is no stopping her. She will stay forever and I am reminded of the shrewd trainer who put up a jockey he didn't trust and soaped the reins so that he couldn't pull the horse. He won, of course, making all the running.
And now Lester has been sprung and I can stop worrying about him. I am sure the screws and his ex-cellmate will miss him. He has been on my mind a lot and not just because I have had to write about him for a couple of magazines. He is tough and resilient but it must have hurt a lot. I shall see him in Newmarket soon and I hope the twinkle is still in his eyes. I also hope that Charles St George puts him in touch with a good accountant. But he never took orders from presumptuous owners or trainers so will he take advice now?
He certainly once knew how to give advice. One day that excellent trainer and gent Jeremy Tree asked Lester, 'I've got to speak to my old school, Lester, all the boys at Eton, and tell them all I know about racing. What shall I say?' A pause and then the mumbled answer, 'Tell 'em you've got flu.' And now I too have to talk to some people and can't have flu because I need the money. I have to stand up and say something to either encourage or discour- age some young people who want to take up journalism. I haven't a clue at the moment as to what to say. I fear that cynicism will win the day. Years ago, Allan Hall, the then Atticus, advised me to have a go, saying, 'Journalism is the next best thing to working.' I wish I had realised that he was pulling my leg.
Mind you, it isn't a bad job if you don't happen to be lazy, I suppose. What I would like is a typewriter that would dispense cash at the end of every line instead of wretched Monica here who just makes me feel sick. Money is the only spur I can think of. Some years ago a daft survey quizzed some equally daft undergraduates as to why they wanted to get into Fleet Street. The majority of them were most attracted to the idea of 'meeting famous people'. Dear God. You can meet famous people by being a comatose barman in the Coach and Horses and that doesn't involve .any work whatsoever. Famous people, I ask You. They might be frightfully dis- appointed when they do get to meet a few. Samantha Fox is famous. So is Derek Jameson. I once went to No. 10 to speak to Lord Wigg and he asked me was I a lazy journalist or a hard-working one? I had to shrug my shoulders and go on eating the revolting rock cake he gave me with the disgusting tea. Lazy? Bring on the sun loungers and pour the drinks is what I say.
But the people I am going to address will be keen, ambitious and very serious. I might not even be awake when I speak to them. These sort of functions should be luncheon affairs and not dinner ones. This will require a three-hour siesta after lun- ching with some famous people. I have a picture on the wall of Graham Greene and me having lunch. There is no food on the table. Very odd, that. There is however a cottage pie on the floor under my desk. I suppose that more or less sums up this ghastly journalistic life. And now to lunch with my daughter, who I hope will escape the burden of fame. As an actor we know once modestly told us, 'It's tough at the top.'
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