Low life
Melting moments
Jeffrey Bernard
Icooked a portable radio last night. I had moved it from a chopping-board to make room to prepare a meal, placed it on top of the stove and forgot that I had already switched the wretched stove on. Ten minutes or so elapsed and then the smell told me it was ready. It looked like one of Salvador Dali's conceptions. It had melted as cheese does but I refrained from tasting it for fear of burning my fingers and it catching on as roast pork did originally. When I grow up I shall try cooking a televi- sion set. Preferably when Terry Wogan is on it.
It was the first accident I have had in this new flat which, as you may guess, is now looking a little lived in. I could graze a herd of goats here. I gather that they can live on bottle tops and old socks. What is extraor- dinary is the noise made by putting empty bottles in the rubbish chute. You would think there was an Irish tea party going on in the basement or wherever it is they land.
Otherwise life is pretty civilised here in a rather casual way. My Marks and Spencer suppers are enhanced by eating them by candlelight and that same light shining on a present of some caviar last week made it positively sparkle. Sadly I have no manser- vant to snuff out the candles at bedtime but the Social Services are sending a new home help this week and tomorrow morning a district nurse is coming to scrub my back. It is the kitchen floor that needs scrubbing, but never mind.
There was a touching moment too one evening last week when a man called to give me a bottle of Finlandia vodka. He had been kindly sent round with it by Christine of the Ming restaurant who read in last week's Spectator my complaint about being charged £5 for a large one. She said in her note, 'Remember the old quiet days? You were the only one who came in to wake us up.' As a matter of fact I have no recollection of waking anyone up, neither do I remember ever making sufficient noise to do so. It has always been me that has been woken up either to be given the bill or, in the case of Indian restaurants, to he barred. Indians don't seem to like me much but they can he quite charming if you are carrying a cricket bat and the PateIs who have the corner shop in Greek Street have been very affable ever since I gave them not out lbw when I umpired at the Oval.
And speaking of umpiring I have had the honour to be asked by the staff of the Groucho Club to manage their newly formed football team. It will probably be as short-lived an appointment as is usually that of the manager of a pukka first divi- sion team in the league. I gather our first fixture is to be against Auberon Waugh's team from his club, the Academy. If they are all soppy writers as I suspect they are, it should be a walkover for us. The Groucho barmen are a hairy bunch and absolutely fearless in a tackle. If they can dribble as fast as they can serve a drink it will be a doddle. The ace we have up our sleeve is Gary Lineker, the England captain, who comes into the club. Perhaps Auberon Waugh might persuade Salman Rushdie to play for the Academicals.
But oh what a bore it is for me to be con- fined now to sedentary games. I hope that the new home help likes playing spoof or gin rummy. How the police do not classify spoof as being a game of skill that can be played in pubs is beyond me. Try playing a game of sudden death for a month's rent. That needs skill as well as a bit of nerve.
So now it's back to the kitchen sink to peel another radio. I think I shall sauté it with some onions.
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