Low life
On heroines and heroine worship
Jeffrey Bernard
One df the winners of last Sunday's London Marathon was David Coleman who managed to waffle for no fewer than 135 minutes without even drawing his bated breath. Brendan Foster struggled to put an occasional stop to it with a metaphorical comma, so to speak, but Coleman's stamina is an awesome thing which can even outstay the distance of those ridiculous Bafta awards. The idea of giving prizes for a single performance of almost anything is quite ridiculous. I feel much more admiration for Liz McColgan than I do for Emma Thompson, and I wish Miss Thompson hadn't repeated her claim on receiving an award that it was unexpected or had come as a surprise. Had Ladbroke's been betting on the event, she would have been 20-1 on months ago. Per- haps I like McColgan as much as I do because being so frightened as I am of being frightened I may overrate bravery.
Mind you, not long after we saw little Liz breaking the tape in the Mall we were treated to the sight of Joan Collins present- ing the first of the Bafta prizes. Now there's a woman with guts. I wonder that she hasn't done the decent thing by now and jumped off this wretched planet. But until last Sunday my real heroine has been of all things an Essex woman, Sally Gun- nell. I think she was one of the most inspir- ing female athletes I have ever seen — I should have had the sense to realise ages ago that Martina Navratilova was absolute- ly supreme but it took me 60 years to get over my prejudice about lesbians — but rather sadly Gunnell has now come out with some tosh about physical fitness and the capabilities of the human body in the Sunday Telegraph on the same day as the race. I hope they paid her handsomely for agreeing to say such wildly inaccurate and optimistic things about our bodies. There was a list of sorts of the things within our capabilities, but the whole piece surely should have started out saying what we couldn't do, and one of those things we surely aren't meant to do is quite simply to stand up straight and even to lift objects that are heavier than what we can put in our big mouths. In spite of William Blake's vision of God creating the universe you surely have to think that he was an extremely bad designer. The trouble that a woman can have in giving birth bears that out as almost any obstetrician will tell you.
I thought of all these things yesterday afternoon lying on a bed while doctors and nurses ran their hands and eyes over this condemned piece of meat. Admittedly, the major part of my destruction, until last year, was self-inflicted, but you think — I would anyway — that they could do a bit more to stop the rot. It turns out that I have recently lost 7 lbs and with a punk hairstyle I could now be used as a shuttle- cock. It is only now, after all these years, that I at last really do care about my health. Bad health is so bloody uncomfort- able and I am even expected to go out of my way more and more to help others in a different sort of shit.
Some months ago I sent a cheque to Shelter to help the homeless as, having been in that leaky boat many years ago, I thought it a good cause. Unfortunately, like the people who send out various cata- logues, Shelter has been bombarding me with unsolicited begging letters ever since. Today's umpteenth request — misspelt name — has a fairly vivid picture of a dilapidated pair of shoes in the envelope alongside the message in heavy type. 'Put yourself in someone else's shoes for five minutes ... ' I wish I could. In a fit of pique some months ago I got Vera to throw all my shoes, including the left-foot- ed ones, down the rubbish shute.
My brother Bruce once remarked when I wore two shoes at a time that they were extremely 'poncey'. What he meant was extremely good and expensive. I have an artificial right leg now which I don't use since my left leg isn't strong enough to help it along and Shelter are welcome to that as is Sally Gunnell in the event of her right leg just falling off.
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