Low life
Room to improve
Jeffrey Bernard
Since Angela Levin of the Observ:(ri Magazine has studiously avoided writing of my one and only favourite roont, preferring as she does the old world chart.° of Judi Dench's pad and the copper wart ing pan horror of Jean Rook's place, not mention the ample loot apparent in both'A, shall take it upon myself to give you a gul ed tour of the cell I scream myself to WO and sleep in. (Sorry to trouble you bat e need to record it as it is now for flour,. reference.) Yes, the memory banks hay,: blown a fuse and framed pictures and c°1 lages on the wall are standing in. But the ;s first thing that might strike a visitor to ti,.", 1 dark brown study is that it smells like th." John Player factory. The window's belle open since the beginning of June but stink of smoke. My best friend, a pate cheese plant, thrives on it strangely but I ex, pect Nelson, whose bust stands on the 01 dow ledge, to cough at any moment.
What does appal me is the sundry crap
that one collects and ends up surrounded by over the years. I have some unbelievable books, review copies plus unsolicited nonsense from publishers wanting a plug. But 1 think Miss Levin would want me Photographed at my desk. It used to belong to my old and sadly departed friend Frank Norman. He wrote `Fings Aint Wot They Used T'Be' at it, but, since I acquired it, it has seen no hits. On it at this moment are two summonses from Newbury County Court — hangovers from Lambourn days *-- a ticking off from the Barclaycard peo- ple, a passport that's simply dying to be used, a cork screw, an overflowing ash tray, a Jockey Club press badge, Valium and a tear jerker of a diary circa 1979. There are six drawers in the desk; one full of deter- minedly virginal paper, and there's another drawer where the buff nasties go and which Is never looked into. By the side of the desk there's a three-litre bottle of Smirnoff that I got on my birthday, which is now collecting 2Lop pieces. (It took £15 just to cover the bottom of it and when it's full it's the Aegean for me.) But those pictures on the wall; what a strange assortment. I have to admit that I'm In most of them but what's Francis Bacon doing with Rocky Graziano, Tom Baker, Lester Piggott, Richard Ingrams, Tony 1-ale, Frank Norman, my last three wives, my mum and dad, my brothers, daughter and my prep school cricket team? There's hundreds more but that school team picture somehow embarrasses me now. We look More like a masturbating team than a Cricket one and probably were. By my bed, and this is not a suitable journal to dis- cuss that old thing in, there's a fridge. VerY comforting in the summer. That contains my favourite glass, vodka, lime, Perrier water, swizzle sticks and orange sorbet. 1 once found a slice of quiche in it too.
But I'm going to have to clear out a load of books and bung them to Oxfam. If they distribute them carefully I expect The Alcoholic and the Help He Needs, Florence Allehtingale and Clever Betting at Your Bet- 1,1101) will be queued up for in French c9uatorial Africa. Other books which I ,.1111?ht raise a giggle in the jungle are Juliet 41., itchell's Psychoanalysis and Feminism, liePreSSiOn — I've a library on that subject ' and Rule Britannia.
Now the thing is, would I change my chambers in the unlikely event of a pools win or a lunatic legacy? I'd probably con- skier a penthouse flat overlooking the park • and near the Ritz, but I'd have second la9ughts. After all, I am semi-retired. Some alight say completely so. What more does a Ilan need other than a bed, fridge, bath, a telephone that's mysteriously stopped tak- ing incoming calls from women, an ex- hausted ' Barclaycard, a friendly houseplant, 5 ashtrays and a tolerant landlady? Cop- Iler bedwarming pan? Horse brasses? Not 41 Your Nelly. But I do wish Angela Levin !, w°uld pop round for a drop of the Earl
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