Low life
Left-over duck fat
Jeffrey Bernard
Ispent Christmas 1965 in St Stephen's hospital and the registrar there told me that if I ever had another drink it would kill me. He also said that I must never drink coffee again or eat curry otherwise my pancreas would explode. I wonder how he is. Christmas 1990 was nearly a disaster too.
My daughter turned up for lunch no less than one and a quarter hours late. I felt slightly sick with anger. I didn't shout but I seethed for 30 minutes. She should go and live in Dublin, Cork or Tralee where they don't mind if you are a week late for lunch. I mind very much when I am cooking but I can wait for half an hour in a restaurant.
And, talking of restaurants, an amazing- ly civilised thing happened just before Christmas. The owners of that good place, L'Epicure, invited me to lunch with a friend and we ordered a vodka each as an aperitif. They produced a bottle of the stuff in an ice bucket. A touch of style that.
Anyway, before the tardy daughter ar- rived and while the duck had stopped quacking and begun to sizzle, I had sat about with an old mate from the Coach and Horses, Gordon, sipping, reminiscing ab- out 1990 and peeling a few potatoes at the leisurely pace my health allows. He brought me a compact disc of Mahler's ninth symphony and some Kenya tea (bet- ter than Indian), and I gave him a Water- ford crystal tumbler for his disgusting whisky. Just as I was about to strangle the daughter she gave me a rather nice jersey and the sort of absent-minded pat on the head that you might give a strange dog. She had brought a friend with her, a half-Indian, half-German girl — what an odd cocktail: by Attila out of Indira — and she was very nervous of me at first. By pudding time all was well.
Six hours later, when they had all gone home, I lay on my bed and dreamed that a stonemason was carving 1932-1991 on a gravestone. I awoke thinking of the flights of angels that Horatio hoped would escort Hamlet and thought that my flight will be a squadron of Heinkel 112s.
So, for a week now, I have been eating potatoes sautéed in left-over duck fat. How I long for this holiday to be over and to make the return to the banality of spaghetti bolognese, the boredom of the chat in the pub without once-a-year drinkers and hearing Norman saying 'piss off' instead of 'happy Christmas'. So that's all over and now all there is to cope with are the idiots who keep wishing you a happy New Year right up until the end of February. I don't quite know why it is that people hold out so much hope for a new year. Another freeze up, another war. It is turning over a new leaf perhaps. I have turned over hundreds of them and read the same story every time.
The media goes bananas now as well. The quality of the television programmes over Christmas was quite appalling. The only thing I saw that stirred me slightly was watching Desert Orchid winning the King George VI Chase at Kempton Park for the fourth time. Even then there were some animals in betting shops who had opposed him baying for him to fall. As bad as boxing fans those people.
But sitting here and gazing into what space there is I realise that without the play 1990 would have been the pits for me and all thanks to Keith Waterhouse for saving me from those pits. If it is revived, and there is a chance, I won't mind so much when the lease of this flat runs out. That play was something of a lifeline. Oh well, down with the holly and away with the cards. I just wish I could face this year as Desert Orchid does the next fence.
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