A reason to like Ted Heath

My reference to Taylor’s ’55 elicited a number of communications about the glories of old port — and one on a less glorious veteran: old Edward Heath. When the Tory Conference was in Bournemouth, Le Grand Epicier would always bid a group of admirers to dine in the Close at Salisbury. In those days, Ted had an unofficial PPS, whose job was to humour him into being slightly less curmudgeonly. In the late Eighties, that thankless post was held by my old friend Rob Hughes. To enliven the dinner and mitigate the sycophancy, he invited me. I am sure that Ted was as surprised by my arrival as I was by the summons.

I had often been rude about him in print, and once in person. It was at a drinks party when I was not dieting. He was delighting a group of mincing youths by telling them what a philistine Margaret Thatcher was. I could stand it no longer. ‘How dare you call her a philistine? Why is the Velázquez Juan de Pareja in New York and not in Trafalgar Square? That was the greatest artistic loss to these islands since the war — simply because your government would not come up with a measly 2.3 million quid.’ By then, Ted was stalking towards the horizon, the mincers following behind, flinging venomous glances over their shoulders.

Before dinner in Salisbury, we were given a tour. On one wall, there was a delicious little Gwen John. I expressed admiration, and Ted saw an chance for revenge. ‘Ye-e-es. Those who know about these things say that it is one of the finer examples of its kind.’ There was also plenty to praise about the meal. I remember lamb with serious claret, but the port was the highlight.