Low life
Near misses
Jeffrey Bernard
It's been an extremely heavy week. Both Taki's and my book-launch parties went off pretty well, with mine, oddly enough, at Kettners just shading his at the Turf Club on points for bonhomie. Bonhomie by the way is a French word meaning a condition in which intoxicated persons wandering with fixed smiles from group to group in a room make ridiculous appointments to meet at a future date to be then forgotten in a bed. But it was all very jolly. I was amused to see a couple of people who despise the likes of this column, it's incredible how some people will put themselves out for a free glass of plonk or even mineral water. There were two delightful ladies from Cosmopolitan at my gathering who stood out, Irma Kurtz looking very elegant out of her agony column and the incredible surprise presence of my daughter's mother. Enough to drive any man to the vodka bottle are such riches unattainable to the mere hack.
Five more days of promotional conferences with Jay Landesman — all of them held in pubs—five Soho lunches in the excellent Rasa Sayang with Jeremy — I still can't get him back into the Queen's Elm — culminating in the shock-horror defeat of Colonel Mad, the horse named after me, at Warwick on Tuesday night and I've expended a cheque book, half of my liver and severely burnt my central nervous system. The only relaxation I've had in fact was 30 minutes' kip at the bar at Wheelers.
What else has been happening in Soho? Well, as I say, it's a little blurred but John Hawksford, pioneer of the bookshop, has at last got some new teeth, Hussein, greatgrandson of the Mahdi who killed Gordon at Khartoum, fell down the stairs of the Colony Room, Danny La Rue got breathalised, I saw Julie Andrew's tits at a press show on Sunday (they're perfectly adequate), Tom Baker came all the way from Chichester for a gin and tonic in the Coach and Horses and finally I put the excellent flannel suit that had carried me through the week into a cleaners and haven't the faintest idea which bloody cleaners. Goodbye week, goodbye suit.
What chokes me more than the suit though was the wretched running of Colonel Mad who was backed as though defeat was out of the question. I can't wait to hear the 'excuses' but I can wait — for an eternity if they like — to hear from Messrs William Hill as to my bet on that animal. I lost nearly as much as Taki tips the cloakroom attendant at the Clermont Club. Mad's day will come though. Meanwhile, the other sporting event I await eagerly is lunch with an ex-Miss World this Friday. It could even lead to dinner.
After that it'll be back to the drawing board so to speak. There's been far too little work done recently and next week I have to write a magazine piece about the women I have known over the years. It's a horrendous task but the magazine pays very well. I mean, just think about it, the women — or if you're a woman, the men you've 'known'. All of them! I tried to start it yesterday and after half an hour I was groaning with guilt and remorse. There don't seem to be anywhere near enough laughs in that particular memory bank to make for a cheery read on a train. Mind you, I can't actually visualise any reader of this journal being seen dead on a train with the magazine I'm doing it for so that's a little embarrassment saved.
And speaking of ladies there's a very nasty little spate of celibacy going on here in Kentish Town. My old friend Eva assures me that it becomes quite painless after six weeks which I find a pretty irritating piece of assurance coming from a woman who, at this moment, is reclining on a Mediterranean beach, probably with a millionaire. Six weeks! I ask you. I expect she'd tell me I wouldn't miss a drink if! didn't have one for six years. Still, some people are lucky to be so undemanding. I was amazed by a barrow boy I was talking to the other day. He once got locked up for four years and I asked him how the hell it felt to go without sex for that long a stretch. He said, 'I had memories, Jeff.' Well, I've got mine too, many of which you're welcome to, but even good memories aren't sustaining. Yes, right now I must have egg on my face and I fear the only thing to do is to go back into Soho and have another party.
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