Low life
Over the odds
Jeffrey Bernard
Sometimes weather forecasters end their summary by saying, 'There is a risk of thunder.' Why risk? Thunder is music to my ears. In Andalucia they don't announce that there may be a risk of nightingales singing and the wretched things used to keep me awake all night when Simon Cour- tauld was kind enough to lend me his pied- a-terre just outside Tarifa. The editor here doesn't announce that there may be a risk of Julie Burchill writing a piece next week, but there usually is.
The English seem to me to be reluctant to take risks, although they go to the races in droves. But taking risks gives me a buzz of sorts and if this were 1815 I think I would risk having £100 with my bookmak- er, Victor Chandler, on the French to win Waterloo despite odr good away record. If it hadn't been for that outsider, Blucher, getting up in the closing stages we might not have had the railway station of that name.
But would you risk £1,000 on Tenby to win the Derby at 2-1 on? I never trust cer- tainties and, come the day, may risk a little on the 'long fellow' to win the race on Fatherland, awful name for a horse. I fear that my brother Bruce may never forgive me for risking a hefty sum on Australia to win the forthcoming Test series, but that is how I now see the outcome. England don't bowl very well but I should be overjoyed to lose my money, especially since Dennis Waterman might pay Victor Chandler. I am in fact disgustingly patriotic.
The one risk I didn't take this week was to go to the Chelsea Flower Show. For years and years I have tried to get a ticket to the first day, and at last got one this year, but I didn't go for fear that with my weak legs and leaning on a stick I would fall again in the crowd. Weeded out, so to speak. I particularly wanted to see the water garden and avoid the press tent.
And now I have suddenly remembered that it is Deborah's birthday, of course, because it is the day before mine. The press had a tiny field day writing about the two of us and Richard Ingrams. It would appear that I lost a battle of love to the Cyrano of Aldworth, but I am happy for them both and I hope that Deborah will enjoy pumping Richard's organ for years to come.
So I sit here now in a wheelchair in my flat languishing in a warm breeze watching my palm tree waving. Taki claims in last week's 'High life' that he invited me to Greece which he didn't and my new neigh- bour, the woman next door, says I am rude. My doctor told me on the telephone yester- day that my legs will get progressively worse and not better but the Vintage House have just delivered a case of vodka so not all is lost. Just my memory.
Vera will arrive any minute and tomor- row the Groucho Club are kindly sending someone to help me stagger out for a birth- day drink. And as I write this Vera has just appeared and with a birthday present and a card, which is beyond the call of duty for a home help. Her portrait should be on the back of a banknote but I suppose the Royal Mint will put Julie Burchill there soon. don't know what the world is coming to and I certainly don't know what is coming to me. But I can guess.
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