Low life
Street of shame
Jeffrey Bernard
At the time of writing this column it is still not known just what will become of Ian Botham, but whatever happens to him it is a certainty that he would be missed a hundred times more than any of us could TM the Daily Mail or any other organisa- tion that has been hounding him if it went out of business. It will be nothing short of deprivation not to see him in Test matches. And what for? Smoking pot. Tut, tut. I should have thought that adultery is a more heinous business, in which case the Mail should get on its high horse and get all sport banned. There is a far more danger- ous and addictive drug than cannabis which is called alcohol and yet I have been in the Company of legless boxers, jockeys and cricketers in my time who are still gainfully employed and giving us pleasure by their Performances. I wonder if Bob Geldof has ever smoked a joint. Did Sir Winston Churchill ever knock back a few large brandies? If he did, the Mail could have stopped the war in Germany's favour. Newspapers, they say themselves, are watchdogs. The truth is that there is always ademand for anything truly boring — Witness Today, the Mail on Sunday, Bob Geldof, real-ale fanatics, keep-fit people, Mrs Thatcher, the late Albert Schweitzer. People can't get enough of all that. It isn't just a matter of cricket in Botham's case. He cheered up a load of ordinary people with his performances as much as the Falkland Islands war cheered up the right wing. I had dinner with Ian Botham one evening in the Caprice and he knocked back a few large gin and tonics. I suppose I could have sold that fact and story to the Mail or the Sun. Wally Hammond and Percy Chapman died of drink, Stanley Ketchall was shot dead by a farm labourer, Jackie Paterson was killed a bar-room brawl and now we have Ian Botham being murdered by newspapers. The self-righteousness of Fleet Street is puke-making. It was Bruce Page when made editor of the New Statesman who quite seriously said that Evelyn Waugh was one of the most overrated writers of the 20th century and that Scoop was an insult to the profession of journalism. But there have been some good men in Fleet Street. I shared an office at the Daily Sketch a while back with a man who was sick into his typewriter one day after a heavy lunch. The firemen had to hose his typewriter down to clean it. That was simply a psychosomatic truth. Then there was a lovable man on the Daily Mirror who was arrested at 3 a.m. in Southwark Cathedral having mistaken it for a public lavatory. There is a very good man on this journal who is barred from the Guardian building itself. There is a man who went to meet someone at Heathrow and who then inexplicably woke up in Sydney. But Ian Botham has to pay the penalty so that someone can hang on to their £50,000-a- year job. And now, just a minute ago, the Times has dropped through the letter box and I see that Botham has been dropped from the England team to meet India so I suppose the champagne will be flowing at the Mail. But these prurient stories must be told to the people for newspapers to maintain their high ideals. I once played tennis against Pat Eddery and his brother and I was partnered by Steve Cauthen. We played for £10 a game — not set — game, and I think the Mail should inform the
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Jockey Club and have their licences taken away. We also had a drink or two after.
Which reminds me. I'm having a birth- day party tomorrow and it so happens that one of the guests is a very tough nut from the CID. I asked him of course because I don't want any pot-smoking or drunken- ness in my flat. I think I might also ask a watchdog from the Sun or Mail as well. It is unlikely that at this stage of my life I will ever be asked again to open the batting for England but just in case I would like the police to watch over me. It is also fairly unlikely that I will ever be asked to write for a national newspaper again, but then, in the light of Ian Botham, Fleet Street can take a running jump at itself.
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