Low life
Pleas and peas
Jeffrey Bernard
There is something rather disconcerting about appearing before an attractive woman magistrate although, heaven knows, there shouldn't be for a man like me who has been married four times. In those days I suppose you could say that I was up before the beak every morning. My applications for bail to go to the races or go to the pub were usually granted but there was always a frost in the air. No wonder they use the word 'plea' in the world of litigation. But obviously I can't talk to you about my forthcoming trial on 20 October save to say that while I am on remand the Customs & Excise people will be making, in the words of the prosecutor, 'extensive inquiries'. My oldest friends are already fleeing this sinking ship. One of them telephoned me today to say that it would be bad to be seen with me from now on and warned me that I could expect the Customs men to come and break my front door in. And what would they find? An unmade bed and a wreck of a man who in Fran Landesman's immortal words is 'drinking his lunches / losing his nerve'. The other thing that saddens me in this third-rate Indian summer is that the Daily Mail can't spell my name correctly. Neither could the court usher pronounce it properly.
Otherwise, apart from being arrested, interrogated and fingerprinted, it has been a perfectly splendid week punctuated by afternoon teas in the Groucho Club, cock- tails there and at the scene of the alleged crime and dalliance in bed with Middle- march. It is in that book, as my friend who now wishes to avoid me pointed out, that George Eliot perfectly describes a member of the SDP. Of Mr Brooke she writes, 'a man of acquiescent temper, miscellaneous opinions and uncertain vote'. But then, casting Middlemarch aside on Wednesday morning, I leapt from bed and into the pinstriped suit and went to Boodle's for luncheon with two barristers. I wouldn't exactly call that a slice of low life although there is a betting book there as there is in White's. I seem to remember one odd bet which the Duke of Wellington struck with a chum. He bet him £50 that his footman could run 100 yards faster than the other man's footman. But nowadays, that might contravene Section 2(1) of the Betting, Gaming and Lotteries Act, 1963; unless, of course, he was a member of Boodle's or White's or that wretched haven of sub- urban spivs, the Turf Club. I have lived in hope for some time now that Taki would make me a member of Annabel's but he too is avoiding me. A pity really since I long to know how it feels to pay £5 for an ordinary drink. I wonder, does it hurt? Probably, but the paradox is that half a dozen of them would nullify the agony. You can imagine how recent events have driven me to drink in spite of the fact that my local rip-off merchant charges 35p for each lousy orange that my vodka craves. Some mornings I can hear it crying in the fridge. It stops when I take it out and then gurgles like a contented baby. She who would iron 14 shirts at one standing bought me an electric juice squeezer and I love it so much I think I might die of vitamin C poisoning.
Incidentally I think the whole thing about vitamins is a bit nonsensical. If you eat the right stuff you shouldn't need supplementary vitamins. I have recently become addicted to the liver pate and chutney sandwiches that the dairy in Frith Street sells. I can't eat Norman's stuff any more since he has switched to horribly healthy, good bread. It has grains of wheat in it the size of brazil nuts and my teeth just aren't up to it. Even he sneaks out to buy his sandwiches from M&S. And talking of food, you know I have found strange things in this room like curry in my bedroom slippers, well, this morning I found some frozen peas in the bedside ashtray. I think there is a night-time gnome in this flat who has escaped from a Beatrix Potter book and I wish he'd go away and drive some- body else potty. I take full responsibility for the sweet-corn in the video machine but I draw the line at peaing in an ashtray. Perhaps I am going mad. I hope not. That would contravene section 2(1) of the Keep Right On Till The End Of The Road Act, 1986. I don't think I can take any more trouble. Oh God. And now the vodka has started crying again. I shall have to go and see to it.
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