Low life
Tear-
jerker
Jeffrey Bernard
There were some oddballs in my flat last Saturday night to watch the Barry McGuigan v Bernard Taylor fight on the box. Gino, an unemployed waiter from Naples who thinks he can cook because he waited, drove me potty with his hysterical, typically Italian screaming every time our Barry landed a punch and Gordon, the stagedoor man at the Prince Edward Theatre who got torpedoed in the war more times than Tino has served hot dinners, sat resolutely in my armchair whispering, 'Come on my son' over and over again. An ex-wife who discarded me in 1972 sat on the floor in one corner of the room and I served them tagliatelli verdi with sauce bolognese topped with cheese sauce. I would draw to your attention the business of cheese sauce as opposed to parmesan. It makes for a dish as succulent as one of McGuigan's left hooks. The depression the following morning at clear- ing and washing up the whole ghastly mess was heightened by my finding a pair of black lace knickers under my bed. I hung them on my Anglepoise lamp and contem- plated it all while I did not write a novel. What happened? There was hope 30 years ago. Now it's boxing, racing, vodka and the stealthy removal of black lace knickers. And to think I wanted to be Byron. God almighty.
Anyway, on Sunday the daughter Isabel came to lunch and I gave her a chicken that had been boiled with tarragon, left to cool and then skinned and covered in a sauce made with lemon juice, egg yolks and cream and served with rice and a green salad (a Greek recipe from Shona Crawford-Poole in the Times). Before the lunch I took the daughter to a video shop where she chose An Officer and a Gentle- man for the afternoon's viewing. It is a very pleasant film containing some pretty explicit sex, the use of a four-letter word I have never heard in a movie before, a couple of punch-ups concluding in broken noses and vomiting resulting from karate kicks to the guts and when she left for home she told me it was one of the nicest days she's had. Perhaps she was referring to the awful cream cake I bought her for tea but I fear not. But what was so embarrassing was that I wept at the end of the film. I simply can't bear happy endings. When a man picks up a woman in his arms and carries her off to live happily ever after beyond the sunset the tear ducts are on overtime. I guess it must be a symptom of self-pity. But it isn't any good my saying to myself it's only a film and even if it wasn't they would be bickering and boring the arse off each other in two or three years' time. No, I prefer sad endings like my cheque book. You have to be very strong to cope with happiness. But Monday morn- ing was good. I had a solicitor's letter informing me that I am being sued by a dentist for an outstanding bill. That's fine. I can cope with courts, the police and all that but put a woman in my arms to carry off to paradise and I'd have a nervous breakdown. Anyway, that fantasy is rather difficult to switch on what with the realisa- tion that I am now so weak I could only carry off a midget or dwarf in my arms — a dreadful, wizened, little thing.
After Isabel went home I decided to cheer myself up by going to the Coach and Horses to get my daily dose of injustice. Gordon was there and told me that one of the ships he was on that got torpedoed went down in two minutes flat — do they carry stopwatches? — so that was a nice start. But then a lesbian who was drunk came in and made a nuisance of herself and it reminded me just what a dreadfully serious business it must be to be a woman. I don't spend much time thinking about the business of being a man but I suspect that women must walk about saying to them- selves, 'Jesus Christ, I'm a woman,' once every three minutes, in much the same way men are reputed to think about sex once every three minutes. It must be very awesome to be a woman and I'm not quite so sure I'd like to be one as much as I used
to. I wouldn't know what to do with all that power. I suppose I would have to carry me off in my arms. And I have just had a dreadful thought although I have only had one drink so far today. Should I take the black lace knickers into the Coach and Horses, hand them to the previous occu- pier and say, 'I believe these are yours'? No, that would be too much. The poor dears have got enough things on their plates already. What with being a woman and one thing and another. I think I'll stay in and watch An Officer and a Gentleman once more and have a splendid cry and I'm crying for a lot of you.
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