End piece
Party line
Jeffrey Bernard
I travelled all the way from Lambourn to the Park Lane Hotel last Monday to go to a party given by Harper's to launch a teenage edi tion of their magazine. Madness. Coals to Newcastle. Rehearsals for the coming fes tive season in December have been well under way and going strong since 2 January last, in our part of the world anyway. Last Friday night there were drinks to meet the American jockey, Willie Shoemaker, at Barry Hills's establishment and that was fol lowed by drinks at a private view in Hungerford of all places. Yes, they're at it everywhere. You can stop wondering why the country's going to the dogs. A hundred years ago they called drinking `the English disease', a misnomer in my opinion, but I do begin to think that there is a little bit of sickness in that formal and phoney gathering of people who want to get drunk gratis and call it a `party'.
I suppose, over the years, parties have improved. They must do as you get older although the boredom remains at the same level. I mean you used to have to keep your eyes fixed on your drink or hang on to it quite literally at the age of eighteen and gatecrashing, at one time, deserved danger money. That was when the 'punch-up' was fashionable. If you didn't have your glass of Algerian wine nicked by someone, your supply of cigarettes bummed off you by the early hours, then surely you'd be flattened by someone at 4 a.m. for looking at the wrong girl. Well, I've never been invited to Buckingham Palace or a Hunt Ball so you'll have to forgive me if my experience of the Party is a trifle sordid. Not that the Harper's party on Monday night was sordid. Oh no, how could it have been? Dempster was there and so was Hickey. An independent and seemingly suspended pair of dentures was there in the shape of Esther Rantzen. She was surrounded by a group of one man and feigned modesty at the bouquets she kept hurling in her own face.
Moving away from that spectacle I was buttonholed by a young man who asked me how he could possibly go about becoming a racing correspondent and although I've heard journalism described as being the next best thing to working and racing cor respondents described as being would-be gentlemen without private means of sup
port, I still couldn't, for the life of me, see why he shouldn't have had the sense and preference for opening a grocery shop or going in to the computer business. After patting him on the head it was time for the inevitable meeting with old flames. It's a ghastly moment to savour at a party. You suddenly catch sight of them across the room. There's a tentative glance while both parties decide whether or not to own up to having had a hysterical affair five to twenty years ago and then there's a sickening, `Hallo, what on earth are you doing here?' On Monday night I met two old flames and thank God for the depositsof asbestos which have formed in my skull over the years. The first one is now fearfully posh and was a, 'Hallo, what are you doing here?' and the second one was a, 'Well, well, [sneer, sneer J I hear you're married now.' It's one hell of a blessing that the end of the affair, like physical pain, is hard to remember otherwise we'd all die of embarrassment. Anyway we exchanged pleasantries for a minute, me telling her how she'd lost weight (was flatchested) and her telling me how distinguished my grey hair was (old and finished).
After that, it was time to work on the reasons for going to the party in the first place. There are several reasons, all bad, given by people for going to these functions and they nearly all hinge on that line of codswallop which goes something like, 'It's good to be seen and remind people of one's existence and, anyway, I might get some work if! go.' With this in what was left of my mind I approached a features editor and said, `Look, I've got a fantastic idea for a column.' Ignoring the sudden glaze that spread over her eyes, I plundered on. 'No, you see, the thing is, if it was done in a sort of off-beat way, you know, and with, well, in a sort of light-hearted way, well, it could be absolutely fantastic in a sort of funny way.' Once you start talking like that there's no going back.! must say she was frightfully nice about it and, yes, do give me a ring when you've got something down on paper
because I've always liked your work and excuse me a minute there's someone over there I've got to talk to and don't forget to phone me will you Jeff?' Of course I won't.
The last thing I saw on the way out was Miss Olga Deterding. She was sitting by herself tucking into sandwiches having removed the top layer of bread before folding them over again. Well, we all have to make ends meet. As a last resort, I suppose we could all take up party going and live on peanuts and Martini until the country gets back on its feet.
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