Low life
Fireworks
Jeffrey Bernard
T went out last Sunday to celebrate the 1- anniversary of Byron's birthday -- excuses, excuses — and someone transfer- red me from the Queen's Elm to the Chelsea Arts Club for lunch. All very jolty. But you may imagine my amazement, while t I was being signed into the club, to see that the doorman was reading Henry James. once had an account with Coutts in the Strand and the commissionaire used E° stand in the doorway doing the Tithes crossword. I sense a revolution coming' Years ago, in 1952 to be exact, I w.9, threatened with a beating up in Flame,10 Deep pit when I took my 'snapping' down,„' the coal face wrapped up in the Times. i' angry collier asked me was I 'a fookin Tory?' and I inadvertently made matters worse by saying no and that I only got the Times for the crossword and the cricket and racing. (What the hell I still get it for God knows. I'm an addict I suppose. But the sight of Henry James, even in paperback, is not conducive to a pissy luncheon. I doubt whether many Spectator readers will agree with me but I find reading Henry James akin to self-flagellation. Somewhere, 1 sup- Pose, there strolls a traffic warden reading Proust between accepting bribes from Rolls Royce owners. If these people really want a laugh to alleviate the boredom of their menial tasks I suggest they turn to S. J. Perelman or the ace of black jokers, Alice Thomas Ellis.
But the biggest laugh I had last week was the one I found in the pages of the Standard which concerned the lady who had an affair with a tramp. It seems that a rich German bird, Gabrielle Burchard, met an eccentric tramp, Godfrey Taunton, felt sorry for him and then fell in love with him. When he gave her the elbow she found him asleep one night in Holland Park, poured petrol over him and set him ablaze. Of course, our tramp is a former public schoolboy. It gets ,better. In a statement to the police she said, ,I wanted to keep him. I was getting more interested in him and took him home. He Just sat and sewed patched for hours. I went to bed. When I woke he was kneeling by the bed. He said, "Wake up, it is breakfast tune." I noticed something on my mattress. It was a dried rose from the dustbin.' Then she went on to say that the patchman told her he hadn't had sex for years and that then they went through the ordeal five or six times.
Well, the whole affair makes me feel tremendously grateful to the handful of ladies I've spurned. I've received abusive and obscene letters, been hit and had drinks thrown in my face, but not yet set on fire in the Physical sense. 1 would guess that the rose from the dustbin was the final straw. Even I once bought the entire stock of a 'towr shop for my ex-wife when I was w°43Ing her. Admittedly it was 4.30 p.m. and they'd nearly sold out, but you have to Make an effort. Mind you, there's no gain- saying that five or six leg overs for a dustbin rose is very good value indeed and any man who can shoot a line as witty as 'wake up, it s breakfast time' deserves what he can get even if it does end in a blazing row. nyway, it all ties in with an old friend I ni et In the Queen's Elm before the Henry James lunch in the club. You wouldn't have guessed that I've played Cupid, but I have. Years ago, my vaguely look-alike mate walked into the Elm and a woman jumped n,,,13 and screamed at him, 'You shit,' and flung a drink in his face. He said words to In! effect, 'What's all that about?' and she saki, 'You're that bastard Jeff Bernard.' rl e explained that he wasn't and she 0ologised. Then they got talking, fell in ve and they've been happily married ever since, their union being blessed with two children. I still live in hope of some woman leaping to her feet, hurling vodka in my face and screaming, 'You're that shit Paul Newman,' but I fear it may never come to pass. There was another drink-throwing episode in the Queen's Elm years ago too when I brought two people together. A married couple were having a gritted- toothed row and the wife suddenly threw a pint of bitter in his face. He ducked and I derived the full benefit of it in my face and down my suit. They laughed so much they made it up and got together again. Whether they're still together I don't know. As the patchwork tramp will tell you, where there's smoke there's fire.
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