Low life
The Bottomley line
Jeffrey Bernard
The media have the natural knack of making anything, however awful, however serious, however tragic, into a bloody bore unless, with some exceptions, the events are taking place on one's own doorstep. I now switch off the news when it concerns Ulster or what was Yugoslavia, although I am aware of the misery and unhappiness generated by both theatres.
It is quite selfish of me, but I react more nowadays to news of the disgusting Vir- ginia Bottomley. Two weeks ago I waited for no less than five hours on a stretcher in casualty before seeing a doctor. People have died in corridors waiting for attention, so it is not to be wondered at that such matters should be uppermost in my mind in spite of ever-present death in Ulster and Sarajevo.
Party politics in this country don't just bore me, though, they make me sick. I shall never bother to vote again. Somebody in the Observer once wrote that I use the word `boredom' too readily but most of life is a bore. As Maurice Richardson once said to me, as he turned the pages of the Times, barely glancing at the obituary page, 'even death has lost its charm for me.'
I have to admit to rather liking the obitu- ary page, but then I always did like reading biographies. I still have a yen to read my own obituary, which I am told has been written by a friend for the Daily Telegraph. I am sure it is bitchy and will be full of words like `convivial',. meaning alcoholic. It was said of the late Lord Rosebery that he did not suffer fools gladly. In fact he was the most overbearing, irascible, bad-tem- pered bully that ever rode to his wretched hounds. I wonder how Virginia Bottomley's obituary will read. Not that I wish her dead but just to suffer a little. To this end I would willingly marry her.
For some strange reason it reminds me that, were I not writing to you today, I am supposed to be collecting the finished arti- ficial leg this morning from Charing Cross Hospital. There will be less excuse for lying about watching the wretched news on tele- vision. We need another government scan- dal to keep the smiles on our faces and it is high time a female M.P. was caught with her hand in the till. Virginia Bottomley's scandalous behaviour is not rated as a scan- dal and a few people dying from waiting for attention is not really news-worthy. Neither is it news-worthy to tell you that I have been invited by the Oxford Union to speak to them next month. They tell me that past speakers have included President Reagan and Mother Teresa. Following Reagan doesn't worry me in the slightest, but how the hell do you follow Mother Teresa? I have nothing to say and I am not given to lectures so I hope I can kick off by getting the undergraduates to fire some pertinent questions at me. Apparently it was their idea to ask me and the only thing that worries me is that I shall have to come off the wagon to get hold of some Dutch courage. It annoys me that I sometimes feel almost inferior because of never hav- ing been to even a red-brick university. I'm not quite sure why that should be, because the world is full of idiots who went to uni- versities but I suppose I regret having spent too many years in prep schools and at Pangboume thinking about sex instead of working. Not that I would have read English. I can think of better things to do than spend three years writing essays about Pride and Prejudice, but it would have been nice to have won a blue at something or other, even Monopoly. When I spoke to one of the biggest schools in England at Sevenoaks, the Headmaster gave me one glass of sherry. I hope that the Oxford Union cellar runs a little deep- er than that. I shall certainly drink to for- get the entire episode when I get home.
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