Low life
Annus mirabilis
Jeffrey Bernard
Well, that's another year under the belt. One lurches from Christmas to Christmas and it is something of a miracle to arrive at it year after year. I do not relish this one. It is raining, the wind is making the windows rattle — only my eyes have double glazing — and I don't sense a lot of goodwill about, although Irma Kurtz gave me a bottle of vodka called Black Death and She actually ironed my pink shirt yesterday.
She also gave me Fred Kaplan's biogra- phy of Charles Dickens which I have been reading all night. I would rather have slept but Dickens fascinates me. They don't tell you about these people at school. Not the ones I went to anyway. They made us learn 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' by heart but the first Dickens I came across was a stee- plechaser of that name at Sandown Park some years ago. At about that time there was also a pretty good horse called Oscar Wilde and more topically Santa Claus won the Derby in 1964. That was one of the best Christmases I have ever had.
So, all that remains now is the last- minute shopping and I made the list for it yesterday. It is mouth-watering and all that can spoil it is this cook having too many aperitifs before the guests arrive. Just for once I thought we might kick off with a little caviar. The last time I had some of that stuff was in Paris and that was with Maria Niarchos and Sabrina Guiness. This time I shall be paying so I shall be obliged to enjoy it. On that occasion it was lovely enough but slightly sour thanks to a dis astrous afternoon at Longchamp. There is no racing in England on Christmas Eve, thank God. But the caviar calls for cham- pagne which I am not mad about, and I have to hump the stuff all over London. I am barred from my off-licence. Apparently I called the manager by a rude name when I last went in. It is very inconvenient and I wish he was what I called him. Now I have to walk miles to buy a bottle — 500 yards, in fact.
The other bad news is that my bank manager in Lambourn telephoned to say that he is retiring so I must switch my enormous account to Soho Square. You will be able to hear the thud of the deposit in the New Year. London banks are horribly impersonal. My other bank mana- ger, Norman, is back in hospital again with his wretched back troubles and his lady tells us that he may have to undergo surgery. I can't imagine just what you would find in Norman if you cut him open. The human spine is one of God's more unsuccessful designs. The habit I de- veloped in 1988 of falling backwards down the stairs when attempting to climb the bastards has put me into permanent pain. I have to get on all fours to pick something up and that is embarrassing in a shop. Heaven knows what other shoppers think as they see me crawling in Marks and Sparks.
So what of next year? Nothing changes much except for, as Dickens said, shaving the awful stranger in the morning every day. Grey stubble is not a pretty sight especially when it grows out of crevasses. The only lined face I know of that isn't a sad sight is Lester's. But of New Year resolutions I have none. There is nothing I want to give up save this way of life. like smoking and drinking but oh the monotony and predictability of it all. My friends are pretty predictable too. I am late this morning but I know that Gordon is already on his third large Bells and that Eric, the French barman, is staring out of the window when he should be looking to see if anyone needs serving. Mary is preparing the salad, Norman is screaming at the nurses in his posh clinic and Graham is holding his head in his hands and moaning, 'Oh no, oh no,' time and time again. There must be something else somewhere and I shall plunder the American Express card to find it even if it is in Mongolia. Perhaps it is the same there. An equiva- lent of Gordon is sitting under the same old tree, a Mary is making tea with butter in it and an Eric is in his usual trance. An enormous Norman, a giant Sikh, slips a disc and screams. It would seem that there is no escape even with the help of British Airways. But please have a lovely Christ- mas and I shall try to speak to you more sensibly starting in January.
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