Low life
True colours
Jeffrey Bernard
D eaders of this column will, I hope, be .1\relieved to hear that I have decided not to apply for the editorship of the New Statesman. Like most of my really impor- tant decisions it came to me in a flash of deliberation while I was lying in the bath. One minute I was regarding my feet and thinking how extraordinarily attractive they are considering the amount of times I've been made to make crash landings on them ' and a second later I was asking myself how on earth could two such pedestrian ex- tremities possibly fill Bruce Page's boots? No, I'm not a foot fetishist although I've voted Labour in the past, it's just that they tell me to keep an eye on my feet — blood sugar and all that — and I do so since the idea of hopping to the Coach and Horses on one leg — never mind hopping home truly appals me.
Anyway, having rid myself of the possi- ble and extremely boring burden of the New Statesman job I opened my mail. Yes, I've discovered that very, very hot bath water cushions the stark terror of invading an envelope. What I found in it cheered me up immensely. It was a quote from Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici which I've been hunting for ever since my copy of that book was stolen by a cleaning woman at the New Statesman ten years ago; Now for my life, it is a miracle of thirty years, which to relate, were not a History, but a piece of Poetry, and would sound to common ears like a Fable. For the World, I count it not an Inn, but an Hospital; and a place not to live, but to dye in. The world that I regard is my self; it is the Microcosm of my own frame that I cast mine eye on; for the other, I use it but like my Globe, and turn it round sometimes for my recreation.
Marvellous stuff. Glorious. Unfortunately, out of the bath, up and dressed and about to skip merrily to the pub, Browne's words ringing sublimely in mine ears, I was brought down to earth and the ridiculous when I spotted this bit of crap in the Observer. From Browne to Green. A horrid change.
BENNY GREEN
In Maureen Cleave's article last week, 'Acton in Aspic', she quoted Sir Harold Acton as suggesting that the distinguished author and journalist, Benny Green, had a close association with pubs and 'horrid drinks'. Sir Harold, Maureen Cleave and 'The Observer' wish unreservedly to withdraw this remark and deeply regret that the reference was not removed, as was intended, before publication: Sir Harold meant to refer to another person altogether.
Benny Green, as his friends and colleagues know well, is a man noted for his genuine personal moderation and professional reliability. We are all therefore profoundly sorry for this unwarranted reflection on a fellow-journalist we greatly like and admire — and whose work we hope to continue publishing. We offer him our unqualified apologies for any embarrassment we may have caused him.
You may remember that last week I wrote about how amused I was that Sir Harold Acton had confused me with the well-known ex-saxophone player, worka- holic and a world authority on Bernard Shaw (I got it wrong and said it had been reported in the Sunday Times.) Well, it seems that neither the Observer nor Mr Green were amused. Hence the abject, grovelling apology. That Benny Green should condone or insist on such an apology illustrates one of the major drawbacks of be- ing self-educated, videlicet self-important.
But I'm amused again. Carefully avoiding my name, the apology to Green implies that 1 am not noted for my personal moderation or professional reliability. Sur- prise, surprise. Neither do they greatly like, admire or intend to publish my work, which puts me in an ongoing boo hoo situation. Incidentally, I'd forgotten that Sir Harold referred to vodka gimlets as being 'horrid drinks'. Only the price is horrid. I love them, hence my professional unreliability. This column hasn't really been here every week for the past four years. It's just a mirage. Ah well, back to a horrid drink in my browne study.
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