Alan Clark’s wines were as remarkable as he was

Où sont les bouteilles d’antan? For that matter, où sont les amis with whom one consumed them? These autumnally melancholic musings arose because a young friend asked me about Alan Clark. He had been reading the Diaries. Were they truthful? Was Alan really such a remarkable character? The answer was simple. An emphatic yes, on both counts. I suspect that I speak for most of his muckers when I declare that I have never met anyone who was more fun.

If Alan was of the company, the conversation might well have a whiff of sulphur. But one could rely on spice and scintillation. Alan’s very walk presaged mischief. He had a way of swivelling from the hip, like a naval gun crew trying to identify a target. That did not imply malice. Alan enjoyed wit among equals.

But in all this, there was a paradox. Alan owed his promotion, and his protection, to a most formidable – and one might have thought improbable – patroness. Margaret Thatcher was a grocer’s daughter from a Methodist background. No libertarian, she believed people should be free – to do what they ought to do. Nor was she notorious for her sense of humour. But she did enjoy dashing characters who would cheer her up and always offer her a tribute of gallantry. That came naturally to Alan. He always referred to her as ‘The Lady’ and his esteem came close to idolatry, while, in the greyness of Whitehall office routine, she was amused by his plumage.

Not many prime ministers would have bought his act, and there was another respect in which he was fortunate. When he was a minister, political correctness had not yet been invented. There was the famous occasion when he was informed that various immigrant groups objected to giving the authorities their personal details.