The best party in London

Lloyd Evans reports on the Spectator 180th anniversary party

Any excuse for a party. Last night, the Spectator threw a lavish bash at the Churchill Hotel in Portman Square, London, to celebrate its 180th anniversary. Outside a pack of press photographers snapped randomly as guests arrived. The copious glass atrium was lit up by the glare of TV lights and a small knot of celebrities stood waiting to be interviewed by Spectator TV. Toby Young, looking suave in a mustard jacket, was asking the questions assisted by Kirsty Allsop in a stunning black dress. ‘It’s surprisingly difficult,’ Toby admitted during a break. ‘Everyone keeps taking the piss.’ He asked Michael Gove if he felt disadvantaged as a non-Etonian in the modern Tory party. ‘Not compared with you, Toby. Why aren’t you leader? You’re the most talented member of our generation.’ His attempts to get Ann Robinson to say, ‘Gordon you are the weakest link. Goodbye,’  we rebuffed with, ‘Toby, you are the weakest link. Good-bye.’ Their producer confided to me in a whisper, ‘I’m just trying to keep the celebrities entertained before they run away.’
 
Inside, the party was swarming. Waiters wove delicately through the throng with trays of canapés and Pol Roger champagne in cone-shaped flutes. The wise helped themselves to sparkling water and lime juice. The reckless supped back lethal vodka cocktails dressed with crimson berries. There were A-listers high and low. Andrew Roberts was spotted exchanging baldness tips with Alan de Botton. Joan Collins received no fewer than three cheek-kisses from John Patten. Famous Michaels were everywhere. Not just Gove but Portillo, Ancram, Heath, Buerk and Crick. Tim Walker, the Telegraph’s urbane gossip columnist and James Delingpole, the Spectator’s acerbic fox-hunting TV critic, were amazed to discover they were wearing cream suits made by the same tailor. Howard Jacobson chatted to Steven Berkoff and was heard admitting that he not only loathed Will Self, but he loved him as well. David Cameron picked a path through the crowd looking serene and perhaps a trifle worried, as well he might, now that the burden of expectation has settled firmly on his shoulder. Matthew d’Ancona took the lectern and entertained the crowd with a witty, passionate speech hailing the magazine as a ‘multinational cornucopia of joy.’ His secretary Ann Sindall was glowing like a premiership football star and busily denying rumours that she may be lured away to become Boris’s gate-keeper at City Hall. Boris showed up briefly and toasted the abolition of drinking on the tube. He handed a glass of Pol Roger to John Gordon, the founder of Intelligence Squared. Gordon was amused to hear his creation described as the finest debating society the world has seen since Aristotle and Plato shared a bottle of ouzo on the steps of the Parthenon. An admirer told him she’d bought her teenage son a season ticket for next year’s debates. ‘Lucky you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got two teenage sons. I can’t get either of them to go.’

And the crowds kept coming. Spectator parties only really take off when the room gets as packed as rush hour on the Central line. It’s like wearing a strait-jacket. You can barely move but the company makes it all right. The chief executive of Conde Nast is jammed against your right arm, there’s a former foreign secretary shoved against your left elbow, the US ambassador is stepping on your toe, the chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster has just spilled his drink down your back and the chap you’re talking to will be Prime Minister in a decade’s time. That’s when you know you’re at the best party in London.