Low life
Grateful for small mercies
Jeffrey Bernard When the radio channel Classic FM was first launched, I found it a welcome change to the attrition of Radio 3. I liked the snippets and odd movements from large works, and it was a superior sort of Muzak which went well with the everyday tasks of lounging about and putting off essential jobs. Now I have gone off it, hav- ing suffered overdoses of Carmen and yup- pie wine-bar music such as Vivaldi's Four Seasons. And when an announcer promises some Mozart after the news, you can bet it will be a slice of Eine Kleine Nacht Musick. Beethoven, too, wrote other music apart from the Pastoral symphony. The announc- ers get up my nose too. Put a microphone in front of a man for a few days and he becomes facetious, talks with a silly sing- song voice and becomes a bad imitation of that fool Terry Wogan. More is the pith when you think of how marvellous it would , be to hear such music for the first time ever. They redeem themselves slightly by playing classical Spanish music from time to time, but what they call 'the world's most beautiful music' is usually anything a Wigan housewife wouldn't bother to buy.
Held a virtual prisoner in my flat now because of crippling injuries, I have been also considering the future of my television set. It has to stay for the forthcoming Test series against Australia, the best racing like Royal Ascot, Newmarket and York in August, plus the video of Unforgiven, when they bring it out. But watching The Bore of the Year Awards I would have wheeled the wretched set into the airing cupboard had I the strength. It truly was the bore of the Year, and I am amazed that the panel of Judges didn't nominate themselves for the awards. Now that Ian Hislop has become a star, I am afraid that we shall be seeing a lot more of the evil little gnome. But there are small mercies we must be grateful for. At least Jay Landesman and Julie Burchill haven't got their own television shows. But they will, they will.
There was one good result, though, from last week and that was a good report from Pangbourne College. I have been waiting for 45 years for it, and I wish my mother were alive today to see it. I can remember the look of near despair on her face as she used to read my end of term reports. This week's was from the sixth-formers I spoke to last month and they very kindly voted me the best of the speakers they have had. Their English master, Crispin, said they gave me the highest marks ever and that I had been given 'rave reviews'. I am amazed. My talking has driven people out of the Coach and Horses and has cured insomniacs. Other speakers with lower marks include the First Sea Lord, a prison governor, an explorer, an ecologist and a Pianist. It is gratifying, to say the least, that My waffle about the low life was more interesting than the First Sea Lord's chat, Particularly in view of the fact that Pang- bourne was once a nautical college. I think I mentioned once before in this column that it transpired that five of my contempo- raries became admirals, and readers must be thankful that I am not now drunk in charge of a Polaris submarine. Even that, though, might be better than Norman's fin- ger being on the button. I suppose that the boys and girls must have felt great relief at my telling them what the school was like all those years ago. It was dear old Roger Mortimer, the one time racing correspon- dent of the Sunday Times, who, released from Colditz after four years, when asked what it had been like said, 'Not as bad as my prep school.'
And now, this morning, someone from Westminster Council is calling in to assess whether or not I am entitled to a free wheelchair. Could this be the end of life as I know it? Very probably. Who is going to push it if I get it? And how on earth do you negotiate kerbstones? But one thing is sure and that is that this flat is becoming a Colditz for me, even though the food rus- tled up here is a bit better. And Taki kindly treated me to a Dover Sole at Christo- pher's yesterday. It half killed me to get to the restaurant and six market stall-holders uttered noises of sympathy as I hobbled past to Wardour Street to get a taxi. I don't want sympathy, I want a body transplant from the neck down. Some might say the neck up.
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