Low life
Emotional buzz
Jeffrey Bernard
According to a professor at the Sor- bonne in Paris, the French know very little about the Battle of Waterloo and many of them don't even know who the Duke of Wellington was. The few Frenchmen who do know about it, and one of them appar- ently writes a book every year trying to prove it was a French victory, put their defeat down to Napoleon having had an off day because of his haemorrhoids. Presum- ably those in the know regard Trafalgar as 'having been no more than a rather serious boating accident. They also think, so I read somewhere, that the presence of Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square is politically incorrect now that we are in the Common Market. And yet they still refer to Gladia- teur the winner of the 1865 Epsom Derby as the Avenger of Waterloo.
As awful as their attitude is about Nel- son's Column, it is not much worse than the idea of some of the people on our side to put up a statue in Trafalgar Square of Margaret Thatcher on a vacant plinth. Surely it would be more appropriate if they put up a statue of another Nelson, Man- dela, since it is opposite South Africa House. For some reason or other, and it certainly isn't racist, the idea of Nelson Mandela does not give me the emotional buzz that Horatio Nelson does, but you have to take your hat off to a man who could have spent all those years in prison for a principle' as well as having had the guts to be married to the awful heroine of Camden Council, of the readers of The Guardian and of other blinkered bleeding hearts liberals.
And now I am off to Majorca to stay, for a few days, with one of my ex-wives, which might be like being dropped behind enemy lines. 1 have also been dropped by The Colony Room Club after having been a regular customer for 48 years. John Minton first took me there just after Muriel Belch- er opened it — when I was a pretty boy. Now I am told that I am not being invited to appear in a new photograph of the members and stars of the club like Damien Hirst who pickles sheep before painting them and a load of other bright young sparks. The Evening Standard telephoned me to ask my reaction to this enormous blow to my vanity and self esteem and they told me that the club claimed that I can no longer negotiate the staircase to the first floor on one leg. This is, of course, com- plete and utter balls but my reaction is merely one of faint surprise. It is usual for clubs like The Colony Room who need every penny and the good will of the walking wounded to wait for them actually to die. I suppose I am now lumbered with the Groucho Club and it with me. Never mind, although the lavatory is two flights of stairs down into the basement, I must say that the bar on the ground floor positively sparkles on occasion.
I have been complaining for some years now that most women can talk about such matters as curtain material with great enthusiasm. Only last week I listened to a riveting discussion on the subject of road signs before I suddenly realised that it was I that was doing the talking. I should have seen that I was turning into a club bore weeks ago when I discovered that I could at last fall asleep without the help of Temazepam. This could be why I have had to resign my bar stool in The Colony Room Club. I feel a bit like the rather pathetic Duke of Windsor must have felt, just chain-smoking .my way into oblivion. Tomorrow'I meet Mrs Simpson in Majoca.
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