Low life
Silver spoon wanted
Jeffrey Bernard
telephoned Newmarket last night and I all is well for the time being. The Inland Revenue, though, are lurking in the wings and for that matter I think I can hear them coming up my stairs. All these people tax, VAT, Customs and Excise — are relentless. They won't let go, like dogs with bones. Two years ago the Customs and Excise had me arrested. A few weeks ago, they asked me to an office party. Why? And now the Coach and Horses is crawling with CID people. It probably always has been. I can't see their fascination in the place. It is just a kennel to this dog and all the customers are harmless, except to themselves, of course.
This is nothing new to me. There was a prefect at school — he should have been called Jouvet — who spent two years in the hope of catching me smoking. He used to pop up everywhere. In the bicycle shed, into my but in the woods and he often searched my desk and bed as though I was daft enough to keep cigarettes there. Then he would stop me to smell my breath for the tell-tale nicotine. He eventually got me for telling one boy to 1— off and I suppose he is probably a detective- inspector now. We will meet again no doubt when the ridiculous Edwina Currie makes it a criminal offence to smoke. Oh, and drink. Mind you, I once had to dispense with a literary agent because she drank too much. She was very surprised but I pointed out to her, quite logically I thought, that one of us had to be sober and it certainly wasn't going to be me.
Anyway, the Inland Revenue, it would seem, want a little more than £1 million from Lester. He should seek advice from Lord Vestey, an expert in tax matters. Otherwise he might end up having to dip into his Bahamas number four account. But it isn't disaster. As Lord Howard de Walden once said, 'One million is very like • another million.' How true. Oddly enough Lord Howard was my landlord once. I met him at Newbury races one day long ago and asked him for a rent reduction. He was quite taken aback and obviously didn't realise that I was pulling his leg. He advised me to speak to his agent. I suppose it must make a man feel pretty safe to own practically everything between Baker Street and Great Portland Street. Owning a Derby winner must be fairly encouraging too.
I have often wondered what the odds are against being born of a duke and duchess. Given Debrett's and the figure of the population I suppose it would be easy enough to work out. But I do think it is a little unfair to be a skint mister. It isn't a very tidy life from where I am sitting although She who has abandoned the ironing board very kindly cleared away the spilt cottage pie from the carpet yesterday. It had been there for three days, dried out a bit and came away in her gracious hand quite easily. No, I don't think that Lord Howard de Walden need concern himself with the right-hand column, the prices, of a menu. He would make a suitable father never mind a duke.
I mention the business of menus because these petty considerations are not heeded by Waldens or dukes. Eating so many meals out is a financial killer. It is not my idea of bliss to sit here alone in the dark of the night trying to eat cottage pie bought for me by Norman. So the restaurant bills are piling up and I think that this room is being bugged by various authorities. It's a mess. Very different from life at Chats- worth I would say. The fuchsia is dying in the soda water and the overflow pipe from the fourth floor of the genito-urinary hos- pital doesn't stop spewing forth and keep- ing me awake all night. I have run out of tea bags and there is only an inch of vodka left in the bottle.
Reading the label on that bottle I see that Pierre Smirnoff ceased purveying vod- ka to the Czars in 1917. One can only wonder why. And now it is back to M & S for some more cottage pie and tonight we shall attempt to eat it from a plate. Not the family plate though.
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