A must read book from one of lifes great drunks, the man was totally irreverant and sometimes not nice to be around but he told it like it was warts and all.
A book for the same mood as Tom Waits'
Nighthawks at the Diner
. It isn't as good a work because it's in close-up: this is the barfly talking straight to you, perceptive, boring, unwittingly empathic, slurring, rambling, cruel, candid and funny (and of course the rarer skill of music is absent). Both, whilst hardly shying away from the dark side, make a kind of sullen, messy dejection almost cool - in itself this is company for misery.
Characterful and sometimes objectionable drunks are, perhaps,
A book for the same mood as Tom Waits'
Nighthawks at the Diner
. It isn't as good a work because it's in close-up: this is the barfly talking straight to you, perceptive, boring, unwittingly empathic, slurring, rambling, cruel, candid and funny (and of course the rarer skill of music is absent). Both, whilst hardly shying away from the dark side, make a kind of sullen, messy dejection almost cool - in itself this is company for misery.
Characterful and sometimes objectionable drunks are, perhaps, the same anywhere. Plenty of these pieces could be scripts for Frank Gallagher or Rab C. Nesbitt (the meandering yet witty rants - usually unPC but sometimes surprisingly compassionate - the bedsit squalor, the debt collectors*, the drunk and disorderly arrests, the local that may as well be his living room, his dodgy mates there). It's just that his accent is posher, you might have heard of a few of his friends - the most enduringly famous being Tom Baker - and the generous expense accounts and freebies doled out to 1970s-80s London journalists meant that whilst he was personally in penury, he got some very good dollops of the high life too: a Christmas dinner at the Hilton, or being holiday in Barbados whilst back home he's served with a garnishee order. Bernard's 'Low Life' column in the
Spectator
ran for many years as a supposed contrast to a 'High Life' column by Europosh socialite Taki. Which I haven't read, but I do remember Taki's later stint on a paper we got regularly, probably the
Sunday Times
, and thinking him the most boring thing in the entire slab of tree.
Enjoyment of this, as well as being dependent on how entertaining one finds this sort of character, may be contingent on the extent to which you're familiar with a lot of the names dropped - one for Soho history enthusiasts or those who recall the British press of the 1980s. Thanks to reading the
Guardian
on the floor when I wasn't that much bigger than it, and in the days of the all-caps masthead, I can... (Although perhaps if you just like this sort of thing - I do remember getting much fun out of a book of Keith Waterhouse's 1970s columns,
Mondays Thursdays
, found at my gran's when I was a teenager). It was evident why
Low Life
had fallen out of print some years back - reissued in ebook form a couple of months ago, however.
Whilst I read a biography of Bernard recently, the extent of his candidness was still surprising (he also said more about his failings than the biographer implied - but because of his tone, one wouldn't necessarily take it seriously). Really quite a lot of these pieces are about being in hospital - his accounts of other patients and nurses is reminiscent of
Alfie
in hospital with a tad more self-awareness - so the magazine's frequent statement 'Jeffrey Bernard is unwell', in place of a missing column, wasn't actually just a cover for a bad hangover and manflu, he really was in a bad way, with alcohol induced pancreatitis, diabetes and smoker's lungs. He would likely make some drinkers think about cutting down. The other thing is that one always supposes this sort of witty character not to feel any great sense of loss and regret over their exes, to consider themselves well rid (cf. the track 'Better Off Without a Wife' on the aforementioned Waits album). But Bernard, although scornful about certain types of women, is quite frequently overwhelmed by loneliness and remorse for his actions - although it's evident that he can't and won't really be any different. (Incidentally, who on earth are these women in their early twenties who go out with out-of-shape men thirty years their senior? And what do they really think? There are far too many reports of their existence for them to be entirely a figment, but I don't think I've ever met one.)
The most - oddly - useful essay was the first, 'Happy Days', in which JB describes the aching sense of loss involved in going through a cache of old photos. (It's also more focused than many of the other pieces.) Before I'd even finished it, I went ruthlessly through two boxes of paperwork that needed sifting, much more efficiently than I'd expected to. Having already felt the worst in empathy with the book, the reality was almost a doddle. But then Bernard apparently supposed that people liked his writing because he showed them that things could be worse.
* He predated the equally infamous, though less-well liked, Liz Jones by at least 25 years in implicitly asking readers for help with his debts.
Recommends it for:
those marinating in the sea of sarcasm!
Those who don’t know any better would call him a cynic.
But frankly, I take him to be quite a realist.
What this book has is Mr. Bernard’s first hand account of life. As he sees it. Week after week. Most of it, after he’s immersed himself in bottle of a well aged single malt.
And I am left to wonder, what if perhaps, this is as good as it gets!
Jeffrey Bernard was a British journalist, best known for his weekly column "Low Life" in the Spectator magazine, and also notorious for a feckless and chaotic career and life of alcohol abuse. He became associated with the louche and bohemian atmosphere that existed in London's Soho district. He was later immortalised in the comical play Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell by Keith Waterhouse.
Born in London
Jeffrey Bernard was a British journalist, best known for his weekly column "Low Life" in the Spectator magazine, and also notorious for a feckless and chaotic career and life of alcohol abuse. He became associated with the louche and bohemian atmosphere that existed in London's Soho district. He was later immortalised in the comical play Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell by Keith Waterhouse.
Born in London, the son of Oliver Percy Bernard and Dora Hodges (1896–1950), an opera singer, he was the brother of Oliver Bernard, a poet, and Bruce Bonus Bernard, an art critic and photographer. Though named Jerry by his parents, at an early age he adopted Jeffrey. He attended Pangbourne Naval College for two years before his parents responded to the college's protest that he was "psychologically unsuitable for public school life".
Even while at school, Bernard had begun to explore Soho and Fitzrovia with his brother Bruce. Seduced by the area's lurid glamour, he took a variety of menial jobs there but still managed to build a circle that embraced Dylan Thomas, Francis Bacon, John Minton, Nina Hamnett, Daniel Farson and the lowlife of Bohemian London. Elizabeth Smart suggested that he try journalism and he started to write about his interest in horse racing in Queen magazine.
His reputation grew and in 1973 he started writing a weekly column for the Sporting Life, being poached by The Spectator in 1975. His column was described by Jonathan Meades as a "suicide note in weekly instalments" and principally chronicled, in a faux-naif style, his daily round of intoxication and dissipation in The Coach and Horses public house and its fateful consequences. His lifestyle had an inevitable effect on his health and reliability, and the magazine often had to post the notice "Jeffrey Bernard is unwell" in place of his column. So well known was he that the catch phrase "Jeff bin in?", as used in the Private Eye strip cartoon "The Regulars", was recognised as a reference to him by readers.
A recording of him saying "I'm one of the few people who lives what's called the 'Low Life'" was sampled by British band New Order and placed at the start of the track This Time of Night on their album Low-Life. Bernard apparently threatened to sue, leading to the sample being "removed" (by reducing the volume level to almost inaudible). The sample remained, and is quite easily discerned by increasing the volume on a CD of the track.
Though married four times, he often remarked, only half in jest, that alcohol was the other woman. Over time his drinking affected his health more seriously; he was hospitalised for detoxification, he suffered from pancreatitis and then diabetes. Ultimately his right leg was amputated. He died at his home in Soho of renal failure after voluntarily refusing further treatment by dialysis. Growing weary of his illnesses and yet unable to stop himself drinking, he had discussed 'taking himself out' over a period and in his final farewell Spectator column he discussed how he had discovered how to do that by ingesting bananas, whose potassium content was toxic in his condition.His gravestone lies at the top of racehorse trainer Barry Hills gallops in Lambourn, Berkshire.
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