Journalist Jeffrey Bernard is...unwell. Only this time, it's not an excuse printed by his editor to explain the absence of his weekly column; it's because he started drinking aged around 14 and never stopped. Far from slowing as he aged, he seems to have picked up speed - adding in horses, womanising, partying and an impressive roster of bohemian friends and drinking partners until life was the messy, thunderous fart of a crescendo playing out before us.
Writer Keith Waterhouse (Billy Liar, Whistle Down the Wind, That Was The Week That Was, Worzel Gummidge...) lays out a fitting tribute to Bernard, his friend and drinking companion, which - wonderfully enough - began to play in 1989, some 8 years before Bernard knocked back his final drink. The story is simple: waking up pissed, alone and accidentally locked into his local (The Coach & Horses, Soho), Bernard embarks on his own autobiography via a night of amusing anecdotes. The tales are illustrated by an excellent supporting cast of four (all familiar young faces of British stage and screen - most notably Rebecca Lacey, a fabulous character actress reminiscent of a young Prunella Scales); before us flit Waterhouse himself, Francis Bacon, Muriel Belcher, John Le Mesurier and a host of other colourful, inebriated characters. As Bernard opens a window into his antic-filled life, we glimpse treasure through the 99% proof mist. The things he must have done, the people he must have met! If only he could bloody well remember.
And there (ultimately, and if you're looking hard for one) lies the rub. Hanging out in Soho in the sixties with the Chelsea set, surrounded by bohemians and Old Boys, drinking in the Groucho and the Pigalle and the French House until the wee hours when Peter Cook was running The Establishment club round the corner - Bernard clearly met and knew some amazing people, and had some grand stories to tell. Sadly, most of these artists, actors, journalists and hostesses are at best portrayed in miniscule cameos, or at worst lost altogether in the fug of booze (Bernard himself, when contemplating an autobiography, published a letter asking if anyone could tell him of his whereabouts between the years 1960 - 1974; so perhaps Waterhouse, as a close pal, was the best-placed to remember on his behalf). But just when you think the novelty of listening to an old lush telling tales of how drunk he was and how he couldn't remember how he got there might be wearing a little thin, out comes something hilarious, like 'Find the Lady', The Egg Trick or cat racing - and you're with him, metaphorically drinking along. (Make sure that's metaphorically, mind.)
Having Peter O'Toole embedded in my mind as the archetypal Bernard, it was a delight to see similarly blue-eyed seventies hearthrob Robert Powell (a disturbingly fanciable Jesus of Nazareth in the 1977 tv series) stepping into his shoes as the dishevelled, twinkly-eyed charmer. Whilst the real-life excesses of O'Toole and Bernard (again, firm drinking friends) were not a million miles away from each other, I'm pretty sure Powell isn't quite so fond of the sauce, so may have had a further imaginative stretch to go before fully embodying the character. In fact, most modern audiences outside Soho and the West End might have to go a stretch before 'getting' this play, so stuffed as it is with references to a world fast becoming a distant memory, full of glittering personalities no longer at the fore of our cultural consciousness. Even Soho's role as boho-magnet and safe zone for the avant-garde and multisexual has diminished as its reputation has preceded it, mutating the place into a historic tourist clip joint trading on former glories. Today, one can become the life and soul of the party whilst speed-racing to an early oblivion in whichever big British city takes one's fancy - no need to relocate.
Ultimately then, Bernard fades out, sweeping a dazzling hurricane of forgotten memories with him. The main features of his life seem to be that he was witty, good-looking, drunk - and there. We never discover what drove him to destroy himself (poisoning himself eventually with vodka and bananas, though this isn't mentioned in the play); his four wives never become more than fleeting, screeching caricatures; there is no emotional depth and we aren't rewarded with redemption. After all, this isn't Hollywood, it's Soho of the past: halfway between the gutter and the stars. No tale of the after-hours antics of contemporary celebrities could have so much charm.
