My memorable night at the Carlton Club

‘Club’ is a four-letter word. Whenever a club is mentioned in the press, it will inevitably be portrayed as a sinister meeting place where men gather in secret to plot against the common weal.

If only. The main point about all clubs is that they are fun. That is true in St James’s. It is also true in the working-men’s clubs of the north and Midlands. That said, the Carlton Club could claim to be a special case, although anyone entering its portals in the hope of coming across louche behaviour would be disappointed (almost always).

But it could be regarded as a trustee of the Conservative party. As such, it has provided the setting for crucial events, most notably in 1922. Then, the Conservative Parliamentary Party met at the Carlton – in a previous building – and decided to dispense with Lloyd George. His amorality had become too much for decent men to stomach. One might be tempted to make a comparison with the present leadership, yet that would be unfair. Lloyd George had some redeeming qualities.

Anyway, some of us met at the Carlton, in search of fun, serious wine and talk which also lapsed into seriousness but with plenty of light relief. Walpole said that he liked to talk bawdy at his dinner table because anyone could then join in. He was a Whig, and therefore unsuited to be a vade mecum for Tories – though he could have made a stalwart in any whips’ office. But we all needed to escape from the chaos of current events.

One of our number has a favourite phrase which he has almost turned into a cliché. But no apothegm gains cliché status unless it has something to convey. He compares present-day Britain to the Austro-Hungarian Empire in its final phase, on the eve of 1914.