Low life
Pitiful
Jeffrey Bernard
The fact that life is a complete and utter bastard struck me so overwhelm- ingly a few minutes ago that I had to get out of bed and make some tea. It is I a.m. I have just watched Charles Bronson rescue someone from a Mexican prison, pocket $50,000, fall unrequitedly in love and walk bravely into the sunset, so to speak. Oh, would it were so. Sadly though, life is• just something that has to be got through, like a boring chore. Washing up, say. I'm spen- ding more and more time in bed and on the bed watching television and contemplating the indifference of being. I'm not moaning for a change, I'm simply completely resign- ed. A couple of nights ago, in the Coach and Horses, I was watching and listening to a girl talking and in a matter of seconds - and I gather sleeping dreams take only seconds — I imagined all sorts of nonsenses
about her and me. For a moment I wanted
to reach out and touch her, she seemed so sweet, and then I had one of those pangs of reality that have become quite painless. I thought, you're a geriatric old piss-head me I mean — and forget it. Like whist, I thought, most of the tricks have gone. But what's odd is that I can't even feel sad. Tomorrow's tomorrow.
So, after the Bronson movie, I look around my room, a pleasant room, to see
what sort of harvest has been gathered in over 51 years. There are quite a lot of books, some shirts, jerseys, socks, under- pants, pictures, two plants and a reflection in the mirror of a man who's losing his libido as rapidly as the bottle of Smirnoff is going down. Bear with me. This isn't self- pity. I don't give a fuck any more. I'd just like to go back to the womb, but whose
womb? Do you remember Patience Strong
of old in the Daily Mirror who used to write about the joy of things like little footsteps or a bird singing in April? Well, I've got my late quartets, Byron's notebooks and autumn leaves outside in Regent's Park but they don't negate the fact that this is a Jungle. Getting through tomorrow is all that counts and tomorrow I'm taking my daughter out to lunch in the school break. When I saw her the other day she asked to try out my lovely gold-nibbed fountain Pen. I handed it to her and she wrote 'Isabel Bernard rules the world'. With that sort of daft, childish arrogance you don't need to watch Charles Bronson defeat half the Mexican army or feel the need to reach out to touch a lovely face. She'll be all right, 1 think. Of course, she won't rule the world. She'll probably rule some poor advertising slob or maybe even a Sunday Times feature writer and eat After Eights in Hampstead to the sound of Telemann. But that's true hap- piness and it can be achieved by not putting the brain into gear. It can also be arrived at by avoiding debt at all costs. Imagine walk- ing confidently to the front door after its commanding, steady and purposeful ring! That's having life under your thumb if you like. What I must warn her about, though, when she gets a little older is procrastina- tion, self-doubt, sloth, lust, alcohol, in- trospection, men, women and children, and any rat that doesn't leave before them. But the overwhelming desire to board ships called Titanic isn't altogether a bad thing. Walking on water is simply a question of keeping your head above it. Our dear Prime Minister is a wonderful example of it. Which reminds me. Another thing I must speak to Isabel about is the business of writing out post-dated cheques. They have to be met, and usually in Samara. This afternoon's cheque, written out for tomor- row's hamburger and banana split is dated 15 December. What on earth can one guarantee between now and then? A 20-1 winner? Payment from the Telegraph or Mail? A legacy from an eccentric? A help- ing hand from an amputee? No, it's back to bed and Bronson. It's a bit like being in the nick in some ways. I've studied the ceiling at such length I know every brush stroke on it. Sometimes it's a gloomy landscape either Dartmoor or Parkhurst. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of Cyd Charisse's left leg, but usually it's this pile of washing up that has to be got through. But I suppose washing up's better than drying up. What am I talking about, saying this isn't self-pity? I'm wallowing in the sticky substance. The fact that I got a free lift back to London from Newbury races last Saturday on the Orient Express helps a little but I fear the grand design can only be in- terpreted by the rich or, at the very least, those people who, like Bron Antoinette Waugh, sit comfortably on the cake line.
Previous page
