Low life
Well oiled
Jeffrey Bernard
Ihad the honour to be invited to the Groucho Club's annual lunch for the staff yesterday and I felt privileged. There wasn't another member in sight so we got through the meal without a single mention of advertising. Anyway, as I have said before, the staff puts most of the members in the shade. Thank God Norman doesn't give his staff a Christmas lunch. It would probably be served up in a bucket. I would not like to witness that but I shall suggest some pulling of crackers to wake them up.
A party I will very much miss going to is the one being given by my sainted book- maker, Victor Chandler, tonight. Instead I have to take my daughter, Isabel, to the Apollo Theatre. I was sitting up in bed this morning at the crack of dawn wondering what on earth she will make of the play. Can this be her dad? She may be embarras- sed. I know my mum embarrassed me and if someone had presented a play about her — Coral Browne would have been right for it — I should have died. Anyway, I am taking Isabel around to the great man's dressing-room after the show so that she can say hallo to him. She'll like that part of it anyhow. So will I.
Later in the week there is another do, the Sunday Mirror thrash. The invitation to that amused me a little. It said some- thing about a drink to celebrate a success- ful year and then that it would cost £25. Strange people newspaper accountants. But at least they are having this pub party in the middle of the day so I shall be awake and behaving properly. It is an odds-on certainty that there will be somebody there from another publication who will say, `You must do something for us. Let's have lunch one day.' They will then drift off not to be seen for another year.
Thank heavens I can buy my own lun- ches these days, even if they aren't at the sort of restaurants that Jonathan Meades writes about. His is one of my favourite columns and it is compulsive Saturday morning reading for me. I only wish I could afford to go to Perth or Provence for a £150 lunch as frequently as he seems to. (Your waistline must be remarkable now, Jonathan. Bring it into the Coach one day and let me have a look at it.) Meanwhile, it's back to the Amalfi for the rigatoni bolognese and green salad. At least they can make a decent salad and the waiters know the score so that they don't sneer when they see the metaphorical holes in my socks. The house wine isn't up to much but then I don't expect it to be.
On the subject of food, I have been investigating olive oils recently and I think I shall start collecting them. Last week I went into one of the better shops in Soho and asked for a bottle of the most expen- sive oil they had out of sheer curiosity. A bit disappointing, I think. An Italian one called Colle Monacesco — if that is the trade name — it is, like some people, too damned refined. I was dipping bread into it last night and eating that and in the middle of the night I had such stomach pains as well as pains in my feet from neuropathy that I got up and attempted to make out my will for the umpteenth time this year.
It is easy for a rich man to make out a will but when all you have to leave is trivia it is like trying to run a one-man jumble sale. Of course, not all trivia is without some sort of value to the owner of it. Although I won't be here I still hate to think of some of my possessions being thrown away, although it is comforting to think that somebody. will empty the ashtrays at last. I would like the contents of them to be scattered on the floor of the Coach and Horses.
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