Low life
Hurt in action
Jeffrey Bernard
Iam becoming increasingly fed up with the misinterpretations my army of detrac- tors put on that awful phrase, 'Jeffrey Bernard is unwell'. I wasn't with you last week because my chronic pancreatitis reared up again. I have now not eaten for a week and have lost about 5 lbs, which I can ill afford. God knows what next week will afford. Unwell is putting it mildly.
Anyway, I have been kept going in a way by reading strange mail and nonsense in newspapers. I had another letter from Patsy who is still in Ford open prison, the country club, and he enclosed a rather erotic pin-up. I should have thought that was coals to Newcastle and if he thought that would cheer me up he is much mistak- en. Somebody else in the nick has sent me a letter too, this one from a more or less open prison in America where Watergate offenders were once held. The sender is an Englishman and he ended his letter by say-
ing, 'If you mention me please don't give my name because all my friends and col- leagues think I am in Kuwait on business.' A typical English con man, if you ask me, and probably Eton-educated. He also said that The Spectator is greatly enjoyed inside the prison although it arrives late. I shall speak to circulation about that.
But lying here with nothing much more to do than read the papers and occasionally watch television I find myself a little dis- heartened at what have now become cults. I am appalled at the amount of space the broadsheets allot to rock music and there is something a little sick about Aids having come a cult and homosexuality a culture. I had a basinful of National Aids Week and feel slightly miffed at belonging to the gen- eration that missed the boat. What we should have had 40 years ago when I was a lad would have been National Clap Week. Of course I know now that clap was trivial and no more than being awarded the Pur- ple Heart, hurt in action in the enemy bed- room, but it was still a shock of sorts to find you had it. Thank God I only suffered once and most of the suffering came from my indignation at having caught it in Chel- tenham of all places. Some racing people call that God's country. Perhaps the Ladies College is no longer a safe haven. What pretty crocodiles they made.
But to come back to the present, I received a surprise visit last night from the woman who used to bring me food into the Coach and Horses and whom I called the Mad Avocado since she specialised in the stuff. She bore no fruit last night but she is still certainly mad. Showing concern for my daughter, whom she met recently, she asked me, 'Has she got the bare essentials of life?' Like what?' I asked her. 'Well, Lemsip?' Just think about that. What an extraordinary list of priorities she must have. The Mad Lemsip woman. When I get out of this sick-bed I must send a taxi to my daughter's place bearing Lemsip, a ball of string, a six-inch nail, a tea-bag, some tis- sues and a box of matches. But perhaps I had better leave the list of essentials to Ms Lemsip. She once was in love with Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell and now she haunts the stage door for Our Song. I wonder what Peter O'Toole thinks when he sees her pen outstretched for yet another signing.
And now I have just heard that a physio- therapist from Westminster Council is coming round tomorrow to see if I need a wheelchair. I never thought it would come to this but I am not surprised. There is something vaguely humiliating about a wheelchair but it could be useful over longer distances. The council also, my doc- tor warns me, may be difficult about my getting sheltered accommodation, i.e. a place where they look in on you from time to time to see if you are okay. She says I may be too young. That's a hoot. I am 60 and the body is 75. It is enough to drive me back to the drink I haven't had for over a week. I might try a vodka and Lemsip.
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