Low life
Doing time
Jeffrey Bernard
I'm not quite sure why but, at the time of writing, it seems almost certain that Ronnie Biggs is going to be extradited from Brazil to Wandsworth. What I'm not quite sure about is why the news depresses me enor- mously. I think, well I know, that I am a law-abiding citizen, and better than most people I know how incredibly boring and lacking in compassion gangsters are. The Krays were a moronic couple when they used the Colony Room Club some years ago and I notice that when newspapers write about Ronnie Biggs's beginnings he is invariably described as having been a `petty' criminal.
I suppose he can come and go wherever he wants in Brazil but the idea of living in a suburban, basement flat in Rio de Janeiro is a sort of hell and possibly as tortuous as doing porridge in Wandsworth. God knows it's bad enough to be alone and now even lonely in my flat in Soho, but 20 years, most of it alone, surrounded by only Brazilians is an overdose or single-bullet job. It is an appalling waste of a life even for a nonentity and all for the sake of a rather brief buzz.
As I say, I am not encouraging the prac- tice of robbing mail trains, but it was a deed that left me almost completely unmoved with the exception of a glimmer of admiration at the cheek of it, and also some irritation that one of them hit the train driver quite needlessly. No, if I was Biggs it would be suicide but I suppose he has been committing that for the past 20- odd years. The whole thing is one of God's biggest custard pies of all time.
It makes me think what a complete and utter doddle my own solo experience of prison was. For a start, I was only in for a week and it was an extremely light sentence I received during National Service for over- staying one leave. Of course, military nicks are 20-times tougher than civilian ones but at least they give you useful, creative things to do like polishing coal and replacing all the dirty snow on a parade ground with clean snow, and it's preferable to staring at a wall in Wandsworth. I was also fairly amused at the efforts of the Military Police to what they call break me.
After my time at Pangbourne the guard- house was like a holiday camp, in just the same way as my old friend Roger Mor- timer, the one-time racing correspondent of the Sunday Times, told me that Colditz was a much nicer place than Eton.
The thing I always remember about National Service is that the day I joined up, 2 November 1950, was the day George Bernard Shaw died and that was something that left me quite unmoved. The day I was discharged it was with the same relief and joy as the Count of Monte Cristo must have felt when he finally escaped from the Château d'If. And now I am gloomily thinking of Ronnie Biggs again. My home care may be a fairly hard nut for when I mentioned him this morning, she shrugged her shoulders and said, 'You commit the crime and do your time.' What a jolly little saying obviously coined by some Cockney philosopher. Just think how incredibly bored those criminals must be who are trapped on the Costa Brava.
I personally would want more than a mil- lion pounds to have to spend the next few years in Lanzarote, without doubt the most revolting place I have ever been to. It was always a mystery to me that Lord Howard de Walden chose to name a great race- horse Lanzarote. Something wonderful must have befallen him there, like waking up one morning and suddenly remember- ing that he owned all the property between Baker Street and Great Portland Street. I wonder how much a house is worth, say, in Harley Street? What I don't want to think about is the masses of bad news that peo- ple must hear in Harley Street.
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