Low life
Sour grape juice
Jeffrey Bernard
This last Sunday somebody pointed out to me an exciting little snippet in Richard Ingrams's otherwise unrelentingly boring column in the Observer. It goes like this: I was moderately sickened by the news that The Spectator's columnist Jeffrey Bernard was given £10,000 by way of libel damages last week by the Evening Standard which had printed a diary story alleging bad behaviour at a race meeting. I do not know the facts of the story but I can only assume that the Standard did more than call Mr Bernard a drunk, because if I had a tenner for every time I have seen him the worse for drink I would have considerably more than £10,000.
I suppose that is par for the course coming from a reformed drunk. Poachers turned gamekeepers make me shudder. It • is probably the influence of Muggeridge. But I am glad that he admits that he does not know the facts of the story. (No one remotely connected with Private Eye has ever done their homework). The facts are these. The Standard alleged that I started a fight on a train, that I left Britain to avoid paying tax debts and that I failed to fulfil a professional engagement, i.e. presenting a trophy to the winning owner and trainer of the Jeffrey Bernard Handicap, because I had passed out dead drunk in the weighing- room. None of it was true, of course, and there were many, many witnesses (I am actually quite well-known on British race- courses) plus photographic evidence of the libel.
In some ways I feel vaguely sorry for the Standard. They picked on the one day in 1987 when I was not drunk. That is like backing a horse at 364-1 on and then watching it get stuffed. But the balance has been redressed and Mr Ingrams will be over the moon to know that the day before I won the case I was handed a writ for £21,000 by the Inland Revenue. That should make everybody feel even more smug. Ingrams goes on to say that journal- ists should not go to litigation because unlike bank managers or prostitutes they have a platform from which to hit back. Looking at the circulation and readership figures of The Spectator compared to those of the Evening Standard I would call this column a very tiny platform indeed. Not built for high diving.
But what fascinates and slightly disgusts me is the business of having a tenner for every time he has seen me the worse for
drink. Oh how very judgmental people are. What on earth is so very awful about drinking a lot? Personally I find it a great inconvenience since I can't remember any- thing or go anywhere where there is not a drink available — I shall die in that High Court. But generally speaking and as a rule I do nobody any harm after a drink except myself. I do not stub cigarettes out on babies. I do not pick my nose in public. I could say that if I had a tenner for every time I have seen Ingrams pick his nose while devouring steamed pudding and cus- tard in the Coach and Horses I could settle this matter with the Inland Revenue out of court.
Of course, having been on the losing end of so many legal battles, it is not surprising that Ingrams dips his pen in sour grape juice. It used to be his wont to say, 'If you want to meet a bore, go into a pub.' You could say that about any public place from church to prison or anywhere where 20 people or more are gathered together. It would be understandable for a man medi- cally ordered off alcohol to envy those still drinking the stuff but vindictiveness is not called for. Ingrams once wrote in this journal that he thought Bela Bartok wasn't up to much. Thank God he isn't a judge, particularly one of the High Court variety. So hallo £10,000 and goodbye. Bring on the next case.
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