A fascinating read from an era of journalism that is now long gone. Fuelled by alcohol, vitriol and wit, this collection is amusing, acerbic, and a little sad.

A new collection incorporating a couple of the previous ones, none of which I think I've read before – though in some ways distinguishing one Jeffrey Bernard piece from another is the mirror image of trying to tell Wodehouse plots apart by reading the blurb (I swear I've bought Full Moon at least thrice now). Reading Bernard again, 20+ years on from first being intrigued by the pissed-up legend of him, what once seemed fabulously rackety now feels a lot sadder, much less inspiration and much more warning, and not just because Soho is now a shadow of its former self – although of course even at the time of writing, Bernard was adamant that former self was already itself a shadow, even if his complaint was that the cafes and bistros had been replaced with strip joints. Well, it's cycled back around to cafes now, Jeff, but I'm not sure you'd be any keener on them.

Keith Waterhouse and Peter O'Toole distilled 90-odd minutes of tattered glamour from Bernard's life and writings, but a lot of the time these columns are wearisome 'sideways look at the news' stuff; complaints that one can't make jokes about blacks anymore; mutterings about "so-called trendy young people obsessed by pop music", women, pub bores, and whoever else he feels has done him wrong lately, which could be pretty much anyone, because he's a self-pitying drunk, and they're pricks like that however central their postcode. Several times I considered cutting my losses, but then I'd happen across a sentence like "Anyway, the vicar of Chaddleworth once told me that I was beyond redemption. A pretty shitty thing for a vicar to say, by the way, but he had been at the Bells." Or, rhapsodising on a waitress to whom he's taken a fancy - itself not an edifying notion, but he does manage this on her nose: "How God and genes can make perfection out of gristle is nothing short of a miracle." Besides, pieces like this are great for reading in the lift, or similar times when you can't settle to anything of the least substance. And there are moments when Bernard is at least insulated by the reader's knowledge that the people he's slagging off are even bigger wankers than he is, as in the digs at an unnamed, pre-fame, but still easily identifiable John McCririck.

The second book here, Reach For The Ground, opens with the longest pieces in the volume, brief essays on booze, on Soho and on the play derived from the earlier work. Exempt from weekly deadlines or wordcounts, they're undoubtedly the most resonant stuff in the volume, managing for whole pages the wistful, reflective, burned-out wisdom which elsewhere can only poke the odd shoot through the half-arsed satire and score-settling. Not that they're entirely exempt from those vices, of course; even when talking about how well the play did (and I never knew, and find it hard to visualise, that for a time Dennis Waterman took the lead), Bernard still finds time for a page or two of lovingly-collected reviews which either disapproved of the project altogether, or else specified that it was good despite Bernard's own failings. Before that, though, there are some wonderful lines: "Past intimacies gather in the mind and you suddenly remember that we go on and and on hurting each other. I do anyway." Or, and with this one I can definitely sympathise, "From the very beginning I never really enjoyed being drunk and I never have. It was only the process of becoming so that appealed and particularly that half-way stage which is all too brief. Drunkenness was and is merely an inevitable accident at the end of every day."

The subsequent, later columns aren't much fun, though. There's a degree of meta enjoyment to be derived from the success of the play and its attendant raising of his profile – "It felt much better to be 'Jeffrey Bernard, the drunk' than just 'that drunk'." And there are glimmers of joy; it's hard to think any life wholly wasted in which Marlene Dietrich has told you you're wonderful, or which featured semi-regular friendly lunches with Graham Greene. But often, these reminiscences attend the death of their subjects, and Jeff too is becoming an increasingly frail figure here, with ever more bits of him breaking, packing up or sawn off. Which, of course, is only to be expected after a life devoted chiefly to drinking spirits, but sometimes that sort of fairness feels profoundly unfair – I was reminded of the Facebook tag group called something like 'well, if it isn't the consequences of my own actions'. The whole point of people like Bernard was that, like infernal saints, they were meant to get away with it, serve as terrible examples, lead the young folk astray. Except, of course, that reading the columns en masse, one realises even before the body really starts shutting down that Bernard really was nothing to emulate. Yes, he's in surprising though unwitting agreement with S*M*A*S*H about what Virginia Bottomley deserves for the state of the NHS, and there's the chillingly prescient line "It is a mercy there aren't more referendums in this country. They would be hanging children." But far too often, it's like listening to your gammon uncle in his cups, and this despite the fact that by this point Bernard's finally got bored of pubs and is mostly on the wagon. As with the Will Self autobiography, a salutary reminder that for all my disdain of Jordan Peterson's disciples, I would do well to remember that boys have always had lousy taste in heroes.

(Netgalley ARC)

Twenty years ago my best friend died from Korsakoff’s syndrome, a little-known form of dementia linked to alcohol, not a death that most people associate with drinking.
Given that I should have really disliked this series of essays, in which drinking forms a contiguous thread throughout.
Painfully honest chronicling Jeffrey Bernard's failing health; humorous with characters from a bygone day, which is its only fault in that many people featured have slipped from modern memories; and elegantly written.
"I don't know of much work more tedious than reviewing a book that one doesn't want to read in the first place, but it is useful work and cannot be turned down."
So he writes in this witty compilation, for this reviewer it was hardly a tedious chore.

This was a great read, as I had never heard of Jeffrey Bernard before finding this book. I can see why his column was so popular, as his writing makes him someone that the reader can relate to, whether or not they share the same struggles as him with alcohol. The honesty of his writing in these snippets from his column shows just how much he was struggling despite the success he achieved. I highly recommend this!

LOW LIFE is prefaced with some remarks about author Jeffrey Bernard's life, his work, and much attention is paid to his drinking. Sometimes close to two bottles of vodka a day. There's a bit of grimy romance about his days at the racetrack and his round-the-clock schmoozing among barflies, and this best-of compilation of his "Low Life" column provides pretty consistent amusement, page-by-page.

That being said, the book itself is a bit top-heavy, with the funniest and most clever articles appearing at the beginning to lure you in. They're laugh-out-loud funny at times and remarkably edgy, even forty years later, but it does seem, as the book progresses, that Bernard's drinking wasn't just a quirk, nor were his stints int he bar and racetrack just a way of life. They were impediments. And there's an aimlessness to lots of this that's simultaneously charming and tragic, since there's evidence enough to see what he might have accomplished if only he were focused on achieving more than his weekly wordcount.

This was a really entertaining read for me.His columns draw from anything and everything politics his personal life his alcoholism.He can be cranky funny angry moody but always well written,Highly recommend.#netgalley#duckwirthpress.

Jeffrey Bernard’s writings are by turns hilarious, acerbic, self-excoriating, bitter and very sad. I had read only a little of him before now and I’m very glad to have a chance to read more, but it’s a mixed experience for me.

This is a collection of Bernard’s weekly columns for the Spectator which he wrote for about twenty years from 1975 almost until his death from the effects of alcohol abuse. Many of them recount anecdotes of his chaotic life and of the fellow drinkers and other “low life” with whom he associated. The writing is brilliant: it is poised, elegant, witty and (certainly about himself) uncompromisingly frank. There are some genuine laugh-out-loud moments and plenty of amusing ones, but there is also a fundamental bleakness under the devil-may-care facade which, in quantity, became quite hard to take. As one might expect, his attitudes, especially toward women, are anything but enlightened and even making allowances for the prevailing views of the period the sexism and misogyny are pretty repellent at times. Set against this is his refusal to have anything to do with pomposity and pretentiousness, and his skewering of them can be very enjoyable.

This is definitely a book to dip into. I can see the appeal of one of these articles per week (or less, because he was frequently and famously “unwell”); too many together left me feeling a bit desolate and rather soiled. The collection has many redeeming features, including the sheer excellence of the prose, but for me needs to be handled with a little care.

(My thanks to Duckworth Books for an ARC via NetGalley.)

Wow, this brought back some memories. I used to read Jeffrey Bernard’s Low Life column regularly in The Spectator magazine throughout the 80s and I’d forgotten how well written and anarchic they were.

Of course his uttering are dated and in many cases totally politically incorrect when read now but they hark back to a time when Soho and Covent Garden was full of so-called characters and was louche and vibrant rather than the homogeneous area that it is now.

Those days are gone now but it’s good to be reminded about them now and again.

A nostalgic and at times hilarious read.