Low Life
Extra covers
Jeffrey Bernard
L ast Saturday, during the cricket match between The Spectator and the Coach and Horses at the Oval, Jack Hobbs was turning in his grave. I could hear him: a soft moan as I bent down at square leg to pick up my glass as a wicket fell.
But I don't think I shall be umpiring again next year if the summer is going to be as hot as this one. Standing up out there for about four hours, I was knackered. And what is more I don't like giving people out lbw at this level of the game. I had to give one of my pub friends out, though, when he was so blatantly standing plumb on one leg in front of his middle stump after having lost his balance. Why that should have embarrassed me I don't know, but it did.
In retrospect I think I was a little too kind. If I had called Fred Ingrams for the no balls he bowled we would have been there until midnight. Dominic Lawson bowled very well and he and Fred must be extremely fit. God knows how they did it, pounding up and down in that heat.
The surprise of the game for me was to watch the Patel brothers, who own a newsagent's on the corner of Greek Street and Shaftesbury Avenue, batting. A cou- ple of Ranjitsinghis there. Anyway it was a lot of fun even though I thought the Spectator team were a little too solemn. It was certainly more fun than it has been watching England in this last Test. Dear old Taki's tuition under the eyes of Imran Khan has yet to bear fruit, but give him time. I just hope that the great Imran didn't charge him too much to show him how to hold a bat.
A post mortem in the pub made Giles Auty the man of the match. Hooliganism among the supporters was reasonably low key with barely half a dozen obscenities wafting over the outfield to my ears. Next year we hope to stage a three match series by bringing in the Groucho Club but the pub would lose Fred Ingrams who plays primarily for them. It used to be said that when you were in need of a fast bowler all you had to do was whistle down a Notting- hamshire coal mine. It may be worth a try.
Well, since the stint of umpiring I have been giving the feet a rest and doing a lot of serious lounging in lounges, bars and restaurants. I am now looking horribly like a lizard. It was a pleasure to have had lunch with Mrs Home Life on Monday in a very good Chinese restaurant in Camden Town. The Cheng Du is one of the redeeming features of that area, that I otherwise find so depressing. Memories of being flat broke there 30 odd years ago and staying in the doss house will never go away. The next day there was lunch at L'Epicure with She who would go to the launderette with me and soothe the fe- vered brow. L'Epicure is a very civilised place I would like to go to more frequently.
Supper was not so tasty. I went by myself to the Capanina. The next table was six inches away and seated at it were two young American men who talked about nothing but money for nearly an hour. That is a very unpleasant American habit. Money is not a fit subject for a conversa- tion. I wasn't eavesdropping, I was just too close. Eventually I summoned a waiter and said to him, 'Could you ask these two twits to talk about something else?' (They try to pack too many covers into the place.) After a while — that is to say after I had paid — the manager came over and said, `Will you please get out of my restaurant'. So, that's another one I'm barred from. I have been going there for years and would have continued to do so from time to time. Oh well.
But the way the manager got on his high horse was odd. Around the corner in the Bar Italia, Soho Italians behave like pigs screaming in an abattoir when there is a football match on the television. I shall never ever again sit at a table within six feet of tourists. It is going to become extremely expensive eating out.
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