Low life
Diary of a reprobate
Jeffrey Bernard
The past week has been one hell of a thrash. On Thursday I went with Irma Kurtz to the ICA to chair with her a discussion on her new book, Malespeak. In the evening I went to the Royal Academy for their annual dinner and on Sunday I gave a party in my chambers for some friends and assorted layabouts. All three events were distinguished by nobody be- having badly although I prudently left the RA early as I suspected I might fall asleep in the dessert — sorbet — if I didn't. I once fell asleep in some moules marinieres in Wheeler's and the waiters later told me it was not a pretty sight. If you snore in a bowl of soup it makes a lot of bubbles they said. It also makes a mess of your face as I once discovered after having passed out in some beetroot. But on the day before these outings to the ICA and RA there was a strange review of Irma's book in the London Standard written by a writing person called Valerie Grove. She men- tioned in her review that I was feckless. This is rather odd coming from a woman who more or less promised to give me some work two bloody years ago. She went on to say that Irma attracts what she called saloon-bar bores. Not true. I crop up again in her review of Alice Thomas Ellis's book Home Life and I am sure that it is a healthy sign that one obviously bugs people like Valerie Grove who are sitting snug as a bug in a Fleet Street rug.
But before going off to the ICA with Irma I felt a little nervous about the prospect of speaking in public which I ain't accustomed to, so I shoved a bottle of vodka into her handbag which I produced on our platform and dispensed into my orange juice kindly provided by the ICA. It summoned up the necessary Dutch courage and it occurred to me that it is really quite extraordinary that people like Valerie Grove think they are better than the likes of me and my friends. I had to go to my Oxford dictionary when I got home to look up the word reprobate. 'An immor- al or unprincipled person' it says. Now, if I was in a Grub Street sinecure like Ms Grove I'd have enough money to take her to court for that. Even the people in the Coach and Horses have morals and princi- ples, which is more than can be said for half the population in El Vino or any other watering hole in Fleet Street that Grove may drink in. I don't particularly like being judged by judges but I prefer it to being judged by nobodies. Give someone half a page in a newspaper and they think they own the world. But the audience at the ICA were very friendly although I can't for the life of me see how anyone would give up their lunch hour to discuss the male- female relationship. We usually do that in the pub most days while Valerie Grove and her disgusting ilk are sharpening their pencils.
Being a sensible reprobate I went home for a kip in the afternoon before donning the dinner jacket for the RA. I scanned the guest list for reprobates but could only see more RAs, some royalty, a few ambassa- dors, a Rothschild or two and a sprinkling of piss artists. Then the party in my flat on Sunday. Quite interesting really. It's amaz- ing how kind people are. I got some really nice birthday presents, mostly books but I am happily left with recordings of Mozart's last eight piano concertos and enough vodka to float the London Standard and drown its books pages people. The turn-up for the books was that not even Graham Mason behaved badly and I now reckon that I haven't had to break the knuckles of my right hand on his rather hard head for a good nine months. The other thing that sticks in my memory was — is — my daughter. Apart from looking very, very pretty, she behaved so well. I remarked on it to her mother saying she had blossomed out and was no longer painfully shy and much more confident. Was she growing up? No, I was told. It was the gin and tonic she had consumed. Now why didn't my mum give me gin and tonic when I was 16? It could have given me the courage to get a job on the London Standard. Reviewing books about reprobates and home life.
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