Low life
In the nick
Jeffrey Bernard
In one way and another I spent most of last weekend in the nick. On Saturday afternoon I took my daughter to the Tower of London and on Sunday morning the Thames Valley Police took me to Newbury police station. Of the two visits I far preferred the voluntary one to the Tower — it's easier to get out of — in spite of the fact that my first ever sight of the Crown Jewels had me on the brink of nausea. I don't think I've seen such vulgarity consigned to one room since I was taken to tea at the Dorchester just after the war. A diamond in one of the crowns, roughly the size of a Sainsbury's medium egg, was really vulgar. Confirmation of the fact was made manifest by my daughter's raptures over it. She, poor child, is going through that eight-year-old phase of having similar tastes to those of Jacqueline Onassis.
I wanted to investigate the catering at the Tower, which didn't look too bad, but my companion ordered me on to Fortnum's. (Who the hell does she think I am? Taki?) That place has changed considerably over the years as far as cus tomers go. When I was a lad, legend had it that it was a wonderful place in which impecunious lads could pick up rich old sugar mummies. What seems to have changed, if it ever was true, is the age of the mummies. On our left there sat a couple in their early twenties. He, probably an Italian waiter. She, Chinese and probably a Vogue model. She opened her handbag and slipped him 40 and he said, 'See you later,' and left. She wept on to an open prawn sandwich on rye bread. I mention the food because it was a strange weekend for food as you'll see. With the Tower behind me I headed for home and the balm of the Berkshire Downs. Within minutes of arriving my neighbour was knocking on the door and excitedly telling me, 'The police have been round and they're looking for you.' Well. of course, a man in my position has nothing to fear from the police, so I presented myself at the local bobby's council house the following morning.
His wife ushered me into their living room and, looking extremely uncomfortable, she told me to make myself comfortable. A minute later a tall young constable strode into the room holding what I immediately recognised to be a warrant in one hand and actually dangling a pair of handcuffs in the other. (It would seem that Frank Norman's facetious letter to this journal telling how I owe him £10 has got them all at it.) He then told me that I was to accompany him to Newbury police station from where an escort from London would Olek. me up, take me there, and that I would be kept in custody until I appeared in court on Monday morning. Typically, when he and his driver heard that mY voice was neither cockney, Berkshirenor Glaswegian, but nondescript, they didn't insist on the cuffs. They drove me to Newbury then and handed me over. I was stripped of all rtlY belongings including my belt, which' always use for committing suicide in prison cells, and then shoved into a cell Here was just a bunk, blanket, pillow and some very, very depressing graffiti. Oh, yes. A very worried, frightened prisonerAfter a few hours a face in the hatch said, `D'you want some dinner?' Half an hour later a tin plate and spoon — no solcide knife or fork — was pushed through; On it there was some chicken that hao been casseroled in white wine with mushrooms and tomatoes and also some car" rots,pommes puree and cabbage. Later he popped his head back through, the hatch. 'Did you like your dinner? 'Yes,' I said. 'I had no idea that prisoners ate so well.' They don't,' he replied. 'The canteen's closed today. We had to get that from The Chequers. It's the best hotel in Newbury.' Thanks to the Spectator I was let out, I'm afraid, just before tea.
Previous page
