Low life
Away from it all
Jeffrey Bernard
y comeback was unintentional and
it's been a little disappointing so far. You could say it was forced on me. I called Into my ex-wife's office to have the weekly CLIP of tea with her. She was out but back in ten minutes so I thought I'd kill the time by having just 'the one' in a revolting pub next door in Berwick market called the Blue Posts. Who should walk in but Norman Baton. I felt I'd been caught in flagrance. Not since Maivis's husband came home unexpectedly 20 years ago and found me sitting next to her, stark naked on a chaise- longue, have I felt such an utter shit. Out of bed at last and in the Blue Posts and not the
Coach and Horses. Norman, of course, was doing his daily Soho round being bloody in- quisitive and trying to assess how much more or less other pubs in the area were tak- ing. So I had to go back to him arid, unlike
a lot of wives, he took me. Half an hour later I was in the Coach having 'the one' as though I'd never left it .
One of the things I loathed most about school, the army and regular employment
was the feeling that I was missing something and that in the pubs, clubs, cafes, dives and racecourse bars there was some sort of magic in progress that I wasn't able to con- jure with. How must a bank clerk feel when he sees the clock moving towards opening time or the first race? So there I was in the Coach, back in the fold, and seeing for myself what I'd been missing. I must say Norman was charming. Some poor bastard, an absolute stranger who'd walked in for a quiet, small beer, was told, 'Get off that fucking stool and give it to Jeff here. He's sick.' No, nothing had changed. It was Fri- day and fish was on the menu and a few people were 'unwinding' after a hard week's slog in the office making personal telephone calls, stealing stationery and working out their expenses. A couple of pornographers were moaning about ex- cessive police raids, someone said it hadn't been the same without me (better?), another person shook me by the hand and many others said how well I was looking although I know just how I look.
What did surprise me was everyone's astonishment that I was shortly off to Spain alone. Alone has very nearly become a dirty word. It's taken me about 49 years to get to not minding being alone but it doesn't do to mention the fact publicly. Out of sheer, dreadful sentiment my heart used to bleed at such sights as a man or woman eating alone in a restaurant -- on a Sunday par- ticularly — but I think people are disturbed by someone being alone because they presume that he or she is automatically on the verge of suicide, living in squalor sur- rounded by dirty shirts and unwashed dishes and as friendless as a Getty. I've also been told that a man who lives alone forgets his manners since he's not always jumping up to open doors for ladies etc, but such a man should have at least one set of spare keys. Anyway, if one person asked me, 'Haven't you got a girl you can take to Spain with you?', fifty did. Except for Nor- man, of course, who said I'd save money. No, I've had my share of holidays for two, and rubbing Ambre Solaire into someone's back while they read Harold Robbins and then suggest going somewhere miles away from a bar for a 'nice walk' isn't my idea of a healing fortnight. It's also a very dodgy business having a row with someone on holiday. You can't actually hide when you're sulking and anyway you can only sulk until the next lousy meal brings you together again. A certain amount of sexual athleticism is also expected on holiday even when it's 95 in the shade and the cheap brandy is bubbling around in your gut.
Then there's that dreadful foursome. Madam takes her head out of her paper- back, spots another couple and in no time at all you're together having a drink as though it's Christmas. They tell you they come from Sidcup, Spokane or Perth and that last year they went to Majorca but they're not going to go back there ever again and that they're in a marvellous hotel that's only £10 a day. Then you pair off. He tells you that he's in computers and when you tell him you're a hack he says he can't say he's ever heard of you but you must meet some 'jolly interesting people'. Back at the hotel, between bouts of diarrhoea, Madam is not talking but pretending to read. Her shoulders are peeling and sudden- ly it's don't touch me time. A cockroach crawls out of your sponge bag and it occurs to you that by London time the Coach has just opened. You can almost hear them saying, 'Gosh, I bet they're having a marvellous time. Lucky devils.' What you do hear is, 'I hope you're not going to get drunk and be rude to that nice couple again.' Not for the next fortnight though.
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