Age. At the Spectator party last week, the editor asked me how long I had been attending the festivity. I could not remember whether it had been since the late 1970s or not until the early 1980s. But change is not always for the worse. During the 1980s, dearly beloved Bron Waugh was in charge of the wine. Talk about plonk. I do not know whether cats or horses were responsible, but there should have been no question of calling in a vet. The beasts ought to have been sent straight to a laboratory, to hunt down the toxicity.
The Blairites had no shame about drinking champagne in public
These days, we are graced by supplies from Pol Roger. They not only make splendid champagne, they are also devoted Anglophiles. Their cuvée Winston Churchill is a great wine, fully worthy as a homage to a great man. He returned the compliment by naming one of his racehorses Pol Roger. That gave rise to a unique event. I have never seen Halley’s Comet. But I did once hear Ted Heath tell a funny story.
On an occasion in the mid-1950s, Ted was tasked with escorting Field Marshal Montgomery to the races. Pol Roger was one of the runners. It usually won. This was explained to Monty, as was betting. He then declared that he would wager sixpence on Winston’s horse. Even in those days, that was somewhat insufficient. So the old warrior was persuaded to part with half a crown. But this time Pol Roger lost. There was no risk of the Field Marshal trying to recover his losses. From the way he carried on, it might have been assumed that he was now doomed to a penurious old age. If this had been a figure of less prestige, someone would have fished out a half-crown and shoved it at Monty, telling him to take that and shut up. Perhaps the race should have been rechristened ‘the curmudgeon stakes’.
Last week, curmudgeonliness was banished. There were Tories who must have felt hurt. They had been defeated, as had friends and colleagues, while staffers had lost jobs. But a Pol Roger and stoicism cocktail is a good solace. The Labour attendees needed no solace, which raised an interesting sociological question: the relationship between the Labour party and champagne. Back in the 1980s, receptions at a Tory party conference were awash with fizz. At Labour ones, lesser beverages were served, with one exception. Bob Maxwell provided it; it should have been named cuvée looted pension fund.
But as the 1990s went on, mores altered. Those hosting the receptions decided that they had to suck up to a forthcoming Labour government, and the Blairites had no shame about drinking champagne in public. It was some newer Tories who were reluctant to indulge in traditional habits. They thought that the spectacle of quaffing toffs might undermine the efforts to persuade voters that the Tory party had changed. That was unwise. Their anxieties over champagne merely betokened a movement in political self-confidence away from the Tories to the Blairites. We shall see what the Starmerites drink.
There was one touching moment during the Spec evening. Two cabinet ministers were talking: one had retired, the other was delighted to be dealing with the challenges of office. The Tory was planning a commercial career; the Labour chap assured him that if he needed help, he should just pick up the phone. The Tory then said that he had trade contacts which could be useful to HMG. I found that heartening. Two political adversaries, but happy to offer the hand of friendship across the divide: both recognising that their endeavours could help to promote the growth which the country urgently needs. At least behind the scenes, this is how the King’s government should be carried on.
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