Low life
A woman's touch
Jeffrey Bernard
Ionly found out the other day that the tax inspector who is hounding me nigh unto death is a woman. When my accoun- tant informed me of the fact I gave what I can only describe as a cynical shrug of my drooping shoulders. There has been some sort of acid in my mouth ever since. I thought I had got rid of women once and for all. It is quite extraordinary that when things have been going well and smoothly a 'Did I hear someone use the word ethical?' woman will appear and bring me to a halt with a short, sharp jolt.
I remember some years ago winning £100 on a horse at Newbury, a bundle at the time, and standing in the bar toasting my good fortune and my then wife walked in and said, 'You'll be able to buy that Hoover now.' That anybody can seriously believe that money is for Hoovers or for a rainy day is beyond my comprehension. Every day is a rainy day. No, income tax inspector is a very suitable job for a woman and it is surprising that no Chancellor of the Exchequer has ever been a woman. In that event a large vodka would cost £100.
But there are other aspects of money which are troubling me at the moment. A month ago, I had to write to an old friend to ask him for £1,000 he has owed me for a while. I have erected a wall of silence. He can keep it, but I do not like having the piss taken out of me in that sort of way. Three years ago I gave an old friend £500 and he hasn't spoken to me since and, in fact, he doesn't even come into the Coach and Horses any more. Just think of how many people you could get rid of with £1 million. What this woman income tax inspector wants to go away and leave me alone is ridiculous and Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell is not The Mousetrap. Incidentally, Norman says that The Mousetrap is a better play than King Lear. I asked him how come and he said, 'It's had a longer run'. There is no answer to that. Last week he was sitting this side of the bar looking particularly gloomy and I overpaid him with a penny for his thoughts. He said, 'I just wish I could see England beat the West Indies 5-0 in a Test series before I die.' He then asked me what I would like to see before I die and I told him a barman in his employ who knew what he was doing and who could speak English. In recent weeks he has taken to employing Serbo-Croats who have been bitten by long-range tsetse flies. It is the only pub I know of in which prudent customers carry a hip flask. But I suppose it is somewhere for an aimless man to go.
I sometimes wonder what Charles Dick- ens would make of the place were he alive today. It is almost certain that he drank in the Coach. He did a lot of pub-crawling between the Lamb and Flag in Covent Garden and Soho. Fagin was probably based on a publican and if he was he has been reincarnated.
So, what with Norman, the woman income tax inspector, my missing £1,000, the weather, the play coming off before The Mousetrap does and my landlady kicking me out to sell the flat, I reach for a drink and strangely find myself not giving a damn about any of it. In fact I am very nearly singing in the rain. Humming any- way. And there will be no insomnia thanks to the World Cup on television.
My only interest left in that event, and I am not vindictive by nature, just malig- nant, is to see whether Maradona breaks a leg on Sunday. The McEnroe of football and by now probably as mad as Mike Tyson. Dear God, what fame does to some people. Like money it is dished out to the wrong people a lot of the time. I read somewhere that Maradona paid £25,000 for his ear-ring. At that I reached for yet another drink. One is truly driven to the stuff.
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