Low life
Vikings
Jeffrey Bernard
Aterribly nice little old Indian chef
called Ali dropped dead in the Coach and Horses last week. He literally fell off his bar stool and snuffed it there and then. A horrible business and I'm glad I missed the event by a few minutes. But this is what gets me. The final irony. As he hit the deck a tourist sitting by leapt up and gave him the kiss of life to no avail. The tourist in question was a tall, blonde, statuesque, Swedish nurse — the epitome of Nordic beauty. Now, dear little Ali, a 60 cigarette and bottle of Teachers a day man, was 60 years old and had doubtless dreamed for most of his life about making contact with such a woman. How awful then of God to allow him to be mounted and kissed thus at the moment of death. I have been in touch with such women and can only suppose that my own irony will be to drop dead as a large cheque comes crashing through the letterbox. They have no sense of humour in heaven. The punch line is death.
But anyway it reminded me of my own connections with those awful people we call Swedes who plough through Mediterranean resorts on gold legs sup- porting haversacks and sleeping bags. Thir- ty years ago I was a clapper boy on a dreadful film starring Victor Mature and Anita Ekberg called Zarak Khan. Miss Ekberg was distinguished by her lack of acting ability and by her amazing beauty. She even looked better in reality than she did on screen. Every time I went in with my board to mark the shot I was open- and dry-mouthed. Even hardened electricians and lighting men downed their free bacon and sausage rolls. She wore diaphanous gowns throughout the horrendous film and how she managed to marry Anthony Steele instead of me will always remain something of a mystery to me. It says something of Swedes that a gin and tonic costs £3.50 there and I suppose it must be that that accounts for the high suicide rate in that country. The best thing that ever came out of Sweden must have been Sibelius, who was fond of rolling about naked in the snow and drinking vodka quite seriously. A reporter from the Observer once went to interview Sibelius. The great man got him extremely drunk for days on end and when he left he said. 'But what I am going to tell everyone about you Mister Sibelius?' Sibe- lius, still on a high, said, 'Tell them I've got a big prick.' His first symphony would be one of my desert island discs because it was my last wife's favourite piece and reminds me of her.
But isn't it typical to get the kiss of life when it's too late? It's now that we need it to keep us going. But I shouldn't complain.
I got one last week. After the freebie to Barbados and the trip to Paris for the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe I've got an invitation to America to sail down the Mississippi from St Louis to New Orleans on a paddle steamer — something I've dreamed of ever since I was a schoolboy. Mark Twain, alongside Robert Louis Stevenson, must be one of the most underrated writers of all time. Life on the Mississippi is a wonderful book as is Stevenson's Weir of Hermiston. Which brings me to my hobby of what's `I'd keep away from him if I were you he's got a sore head.' overrated and underrated. The point of this game has nothing to do with who and what is famous and well known. Shakespeare, for example, is accepted but hardly ever read by the majority. Dickens for most people is a schoolday reminis- cence. Haydn is underrated. D. H. Law- rence is overrated as is any writer that the Arts Council decides to nurture. The Guardian is overrated and the Daily Mir- ror underrated. Women underrate men and vice versa. It's particularly apparent when the England Test Board selectors put what are laughingly called their heads together. A touring side without Derek Randall is like a Labour Party without Nye Bevan. Gene Tunney was underrated and chile con came is overrated. Television is overrated and radio underrated. And so on.
But to get back to the demise of little Ali, what a funny bloke he was. When he was drunk it was his game not to let you buy a drink. In fact he was manic about it, trying to buy everyone as many drinks as was possible. When he boasted to me about his curry-making abilities I asked him to bring some into the pub for me. Eventually he turned up with two tins of the stuff from Marks & Spencer. Feet of clay. He had no relations and all he left, as we discovered when we delivered flowers, was a photograph album of an ancient wedding in which he was spliced to a hideous English woman many years ago. The Swedish blonde was a nice finishing touch. Too late of course. I await my turn. I've had the kiss of death from so many women but I suppose I'll end up having a viking funeral in the. Coach and Horses just like Ali.
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