The morality of lunch

We were discussing the economic arguments of the early 1980s when I had a Proustian madeleine moment. I remembered my first White Lady. It must have been in late 1981. In those days, God help me, I was a self-proclaimed Tory Wet, agreeing with Ian Gilmour that we were heading straight for the rocks. Ian Gow, the most Thatcherite of the Thatcherites, the greatest of all PPSs, an altogether wonderful fellow, summoned me to dinner at the Cavalry Club in an attempt to recall me to the paths of righteousness.

To dry out Wets, Ian believed in homeopathic medicine. We started with a White Lady: my first. And another one. And… I lost count. All good drink is moreish, especially white ladies. By the time that we levered ourselves out of the armchairs to toddle into dinner, we were both sloshed.

Ian was one of that rare species, a Tory Wykehamist. Ian Gow, Geoffrey Howe, Iain Sproat, Willie Whitelaw, John Whittingdale, George ­Younger; all less typical of Winchester than the Crossmans, Gaitskells and Jays: all vastly superior human beings, almost redeeming Winchester’s reputation. Drink may have played a part. Willie was as keen on white ladies as Ian. ­Private Eye nicknamed him ‘oyster eyes’: White-Lady-eyed would often have explained why. Gin, Cointreau, lemon juice, egg white: the guide books give the proportions, but the blending is harder than it sounds. The final product is worth the perseverance.

All this leads one on to drink and government. Shortly after the 1979 election, a friend of mine said that despite the manifest difficulties, there was no need to worry about the state of the nation. At lunchtime that day, six ministerial cars had been waiting outside White’s. In the reign of King William III, courts-martial were not allowed to adjudicate on capital cases after lunch.