Low life
Not cricket
Jeffrey Bernard
There was a dinner and something of a debate on the subject of publishers last Tuesday at the Chelsea Arts Club and I was asked along by Hamish Hamilton and Graham Lord. I am not now quite sure why I was invited since I wasn't asked to speak and so had to interject. I suppose what I said was rubbish and the next time I go out in the evening I must remember to go on the wagon until about 6 p.m.
I like the Chelsea Arts Club, particularly in the summer, but the necessity of taxis as opposed to public transport for these dodgy legs means that one drink will cost me about £16. My father was a member and regular there in the 1920s and I have been going there for 40 years. I believe my father stayed there when he had a row with my mother, but who knows. I last stayed there on the night of the hurricane in 1987. I shall never forget the devastation in the morning. Even the boiled eggs in the din- ing room were scrambled that day.
Anyway, what I do remember about Tuesday night was being smitten by the lady sitting on my right. Devastated is more like it. And I thought that duchesses, apart from Deborah Devonshire, were all sup- posed to look like Edith Evans. Yes, for once I got lucky with the seating, for I also had Graham Lord's friend Juliet on my left. A nourishing sandwich even if old bones were the filling.
When I eventually got home I had yet another fall, nearly broke my shoulder again and had to crawl to my bed. I need an escort after dusk. Far more disconcert- ing than my falls, though, is the fall of Eng- land. I watched every minute there was on television of this last Test and backing Aus- tralia for money is very little consolation to me. Perhaps the urn at Lords holding the so-called Ashes should be replaced by a larger one containing the combined ashes of Graham Gooch, Keith Fletcher and Ted Dexter. Maybe they should each be given a revolver with one bullet in it and asked to do the decent thing. In that event, though, they would probably shoot each other.
At the risk of being mistaken for a fascist I would quite like to see cricketers shave and be turned out properly. Designer stub- ble and pyjamas on a cricket pitch are symptomatic of the decline and fall of nearly everything. Bring back Douglas Jar- dine. Oh for the days when they could shout down a coal-mine shaft and a fast bowler would come up.
And now every pub bore in England will be picking the team for the third Test at Trent Bridge. Since I too am a pub bore of many years' standing I should like to pick Maynard and Lathwell, but I am afraid that the Government's pit closures have most likely deprived us of a fast bowler. Lar- wood must have worked in a privately owned colliery, which may say something for privatisation after all.
And now two men from Westminster Council have just arrived to fit rails on to to my bath to enable me to get in and out of it with more ease. Is that and the demise of English cricket the end of civilisation as I know it? Very probably. I shall pour myself a large drink now and go back to dreaming of Tuesday night's duchess.
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