Low life
My Oxford day
Jeffrey Bernard
'spoke to the Oxford Union last Tuesday and I wasn't very pleased with myself, although the organisers and the under- graduates who questioned me seemed satisfied enough. Before going into the library to speak, Robert Palmer, the vice- president, took me into a bar where I wouldn't have minded sitting all day, although most of the talk I overheard was about politics. Is there no escaping that boring subject in watering holes? Never mind, I wasn't there for the conversation only some Dutch courage.
The library in which I spoke is a lovely round room with a ceiling decorated by pre-Raphaelite artists. I started off by telling them that I had absolutely nothing whatsoever to say to them and that unless they wanted 45 minutes of silence then they had better start by asking me some questions, which they did. At first I was nervous of the young women in the audi- ence and I thought they might start sniping at me because of my past record with the female sex. But since nearly all of them were Spectator readers and know that this is where I hang out the dirty washing every week they were very friendly and quite delightful. In fact no one took a metaphori- cal swing at me and I was grateful for that. They asked me a load of questions about journalism, Soho, drinking, my family and marriage. I think I may have caused a tiny bit of antipathy when I said that I thought nearly all poets are mad and then, when asked to name my heroes, I included Byron in the list. But then I hardly ever think of Byron the poet, but nearly always Byron the hero. AU this waffle went on for quite some time and it was the first time I have not resented being in a No Smoking area, but then the vice-president rescued me half way through the talk by fetching me a large vodka and soda.
At the end of it I would guess that I didn't get as many laughs as President Rea- gan and Mother Theresa must have got, but I must have got as many as my prede- cessor — I noticed in the visitor's book that it had been Yehudi Menuhin and he is a dour character who is, among other things, a health food fanatic. Thank God Jane Fonda doesn't play the violin. Anyway, after a couple more drinks, Robert Palmer kindly took me to a very pleasant restaurant for lunch. It is called Gee's and is housed in a conservatory. I would like to live in a conservatory and then be re-incarnated as a lizard living on the edge of the Mediterranean. But Gee's is worth a visit if ever you're in Oxford.
One of the blessings of that day, apart from the hospitality, was the fact that the Only person who did not want to speak was the taxi driver who brought me to and from home. One and a quarter hours in a taxi held prisoner by a football fan or a Tory voting driver can be sheer hell, but the man on Tuesday was as miserable a bastard as was his passenger. I really must sit down one day and write a speech concerning something other than Soho. I sometimes think that perhaps Soho is all that there has been to my life in which case it isn't surprising that it is a bit of a mess. Still, how much worse it would have been to have been educated in Chelsea. It isn't just aging that makes me think these places were better many years ago. It is the awful decline of the quality of life itself and I feel pretty sure that favourite places like Bangkok and Barbados have also been on the skids even without the help, as in the case of Soho, of the awful Paul Raymond. I live in dread of him buying my block from the Westminster Council and putting all the rents up to £1500 per week.
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