Low life
Bored sick
Jeffrey Bernard
I once wrote something complimentary about Mark Shivas's serial, The Glittering Prizes, when I was in Richard Ingrams's boots on this journal and a certain amount of unpleasantness followed. A budding detective on the pot smoker's gazette, Time Out, got it all wrong and said I was being nice because Shivas had just commissioned me to write a 'Play for Today' for him. He had, months previously; and I'd finished it and been paid for it, so the two things weren't really connected. Anyway, to avoid any more crap from anyone who thinks journalism is a crusade and not the next best thing to working, I'd better declare my interests before mentioning — plugging, if you like — the new Private Eye book, Starbores, which is about to appear. The drawings and many of the ideas are by Michael Heath, who's a friend of mine and, yes, I do a bit for Private Eye myself. Neither of those two facts stop this being a funny book.
To appreciate bores it's essential that you learn to relish them and not fight shy of them. I learnt that lesson just about ten years ago when !lived in Suffolk and was lucky enough to have Maurice Richardson as a neighbour. We used to meeton market days in Sudbury, when the pubs were open all day, and I suppose we must have been pretty boring, too. It was during one of those sessions that I said to Maurice that I didn't think I could stand living in the country for another minute since it was populated almost entirely by bores. 'You must learn to savour bores,' he told me. 'Come over here and talk to this chap for a minute or two and you'll see just what I mean.' Maurice then introduced me toa local farmer who had me entranced in no time at all with an unbroken monologue that encompassed agricultural subsidies, Enoch Powell, motor cars, what a wonderful little woman his wife was and last night's television documentary without a pause or break of punctuation or breath. When he did eventually belt up for a second to sip his gin and tonic, Maurice turned to me and said, 'You see what I mean? He's quite remarkable, isn't he?' The bore looked a trifle puzzled and plunged on.
But, as I say, we're all in danger and looking at Starbores it's interesting to see what one has, in all honesty, to plead guilty to. I'm on the verge of it back there talking about Richardson I suppose and that's the memory lane bore in me. Soho revisited, I suppose.
There is, though, one bore that I can't savour and that's the bore. who isn't boring about a particular subject. He is simply an instant bore and his very existence is boring. It is almost painful to confront the man, and the worst of his ilk don't even have to say anything at all. You can spot them most frequently on trains. He is vaguely lower-, middle class and somewhere between a 'rep and a 'young executive'. He is a member of the buffet car gang and does the Telegraph crossword and talks about the best way to get on to the A 23 on the way to London and, on the return journey, he has a whale of a time queuing up fora can of beer and then flicking through Yachting Monthly with his mates. He is still wearing suits with flared trousers, boasts a digital watch and has a row of biros clipped into his jacket pocket. His little metal briefcase contains a few papers to do with 'area sales', he is obviously anoffice flirt and thinks he is Jack the Lad.
Let me leave you with my favourite New Heath bore. The office party nut.'. . I don t like office parties myself I hate Christmas but it does give people an opportunity to talk to people like yourself who you don't manage to get to know in an office situation my name's Donald I've noticed you in the canteen you sit with a middle-aged woman I don't know why I'm telling you this I hate Christmas no perfectly alright I love you n, o don't go away I'll get you another drink I rn sorry I've made a complete fool of myself forget everything I've said only there s something about you that's different I think I'm going to be sick.. .
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