Low life
Payne and pleasure
Jeffrey Bernard
and who has done nobody any harm whatsoever should be nicked by a police- man posing as a businessman is quite disgusting. But the police state is upon us, as was proved when the police watched me for months and then arrested me for taking paltry bets from friends. These, the Cus- toms & Excise people and the VAT bullies have contributed more than even pop music to the decline of the quality of life. Cynthia Payne is a heroine and as such should be left in peace. The police activity surrounding her smacks a little of sour grapes.
But there is something about Cynthia Payne's establishment that never ceases to amaze me, and that is men's liking for what is called in the dirty bookshop business `female domination'. When I did my daily three hours a day in a dirty bookshop 25 years ago, nearly all my customers were Members of Parliament with the exception of Ken Tynan. They spent bundles on what we called fern dom books. Now, I happen to know from experience that a stiletto heel over the bonce is no joke. It can kill you. But surely a man can choose the way he wants to go. I would prefer to be choked with £50 notes, but then I'm not particular- ly kinky. However, I certainly intend to visit Mrs Payne's establishment at the earliest opportunity and take tea with her. And it is good that she doesn't mince her words. She went on record as saying that she's fed up with bondage because it takes such a long time to tie someone up. Not immoral, just time-consuming. My two brothers tied me up to a tree when I was six years old and left me there for the entire day, but I can't remember just how long it took them. Otherwise I have no experience of bondage. In fact, when I come to think about it, I am so straight I would probably bore the pants off Mrs Payne should she be wearing any.
And now here's a funny business. A few minutes ago, a friend of mine showed me a packet of condoms he has just bought. On the back of the packet it says, 'Best Used Before Aug 1991.' What sort of extraordin- ary person wouldn't use them before that date? All three of them. Maybe people should have that relevant advice tattooed on their foreheads. In my case 1988. So come on girls, last year we had to start without you. (Al Burnett of the Stork Room trotted that one out every night for ten years.) Anyway, waiting until the last moment, July 1991, is a bit like not shooting until you see the whites of their eyes, or keeping your powder dry. Or are the makers of those condoms simply trying to boost sales in a rather genteel way as opposed to a hard sell?
It reminds me of another thing. Years ago, a friend of mine, Bunny, used to remove all the condoms from a vending machine in Archer Street and sell them at a profit to prostitutes who were desperate for them. He's a nice chap now. And there was another man in Soho, Terry, who sometimes became a little desperate, even more so than Bunny. A woman once gave him ten shillings to take her old cat to the vet's to have it put down. Terry took the cat home and gassed it in his oven. No, no, he didn't light the oven, he just gassed it and spent the money in the Duke of York. I'm racking my brains trying to think just how low I stooped in the old days but apart from regularly stealing from my mother's handbag I can't think of anything particu- larly awful. Anyway, that's what mothers' handbags are for. So, he's given me one of these condoms and it's rolled up like the map of Europe. So it will stay, I fear.
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