Low life
Taking the plunger
Jeffrey Bernard
Life has been lower than low over the past few days. It reached rock bottom last Saturday with an incident of such squalor that I thought I must seek sanctuary in a monastery for a while. A woman came into the pub and ordered herself a pint of cider. I took no notice, but I did fleetingly think that it was a fairly unusual order for a lone lady to make. After a while she had a refill. Ten minutes after downing that she approached the bar again and said to the barman, 'Have you got a plunger?' He said, 'What do you want a plunger for?' and she said, 'Because I've just been sick in the ladies and it's blocked up.' Well, I thought, this is really delightful. All a man needs while he is quietly meditating on his bar stool.
The barman went into the ladies to inspect the damage and then, beyond the call of duty and the terms of his contract, cleared the mess up. When he had done that and returned to his post behind the bar the vomitee asked, 'Could I have a large rum and blackcurrant juice please?' You don't have to dress up as Napoleon to tell the world that you are mad. She was refused and asked to leave. What an awful episode. Well, I'm still thinking about it, aren't I? Now why did she own up in the first place? Bravado? And why choose the sink to put the breakfast in and not the lavatory? Such imponderables make my insomnia almost unbearable. And she was as coherent as a television newsreader.
Yesterday, a grossly fat young woman wearing an unseasonal white 'frock' came in and ordered herself a bottle of cham- pagne. I thought she must be waiting for someone. She wasn't. She got stuck into it with graceful zest. Unfortunately, she was one of those awful people who try to strike up unsolicited conversations, although the word conversation gives her too much credit for a brain. She announced that she had had a stroke of luck the previous evening, Sunday, and won £17,000 in a casino. I gave her a wintry smile but she wouldn't shut up and even attempted to make appalling jokes.
When she finished her bottle she ordered another one, plus a cheese sand- wich. While the barman was uncorking that it occurred to me that it was unlikely that any casino would have been open on a Sunday evening. I also took a look in her purse while she was paying for the second bottle and I estimated that there could have been no more than £50 in it. But would you tell a couple of men, and strangers too, that you had just picked up £17,000 if you were a fragile, albeit sturdy, lady? And I am no stranger to or despiser of cheese sandwiches but with that sort of money I would push the boat out a little further than the end of the jetty.
Of course, she got very drunk but thankfully did not ask the barman for a plunger. I think she may have been trying to pick someone up, but she wasn't up to much and she would have needed £170,000 to do that, not a mere £17,000. Sadly, it is people like that woman who end up getting murdered in Bayswater hotels at midnight.
There was another thought-provoking if not disturbing thing last week. I noticed that at the foot of my column it said `Zenga Longmore is ill'. Christ almighty, I thought, is there never to be an end to the theatrical writings of Keith Waterhouse? Will we live to see Taki is Sick as a Parrot portrayed by Omar Sharif on Broadway? And what I want to know is when is Keith going to write Jeffrey Bernard is Dead? I dislike the idea of that one so much I shall have to go out now and purchase a plunger.
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