Claret and blues

There is a dive near St James’s which could claim to be the epicentre of international reaction. It is also a temple of pseudo–anti-intellectuality: the only club in London where chaps pretend not to have read books. Always a cheerful place, that is especially true at the moment. Its members still find it hard to believe that they survived 13 years of Labour government and had no wish to push their luck with another instalment. The late Frank Johnson once said that although the Labour party had given up on nationalising the economy, it was still determined to nationalise people. Once inside this delightful refuge from the 20th century, let alone the 21st, you are surrounded by prime candidates for nationalisation.

‘We’ll make Nancy Astor sweep the stairs at Transport House,’ sang Labour supporters in 1945, to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body’. Seventy years on, at the bar of this august and raffish establishment, attempts have been made to compose a modern version, deleting the Prime Minister’s step-great grandmother and conscripting Harriet Harman or Polly Toynbee.

My friend Dominic would not find favour with either of those ladies. A prime candidate for nationalisation, if not indeed for a tumbril, he has a wife called Alice and a dog called Percy: neither obedient, both beloved. A couple of elections ago, he fought a hopeless seat in a mining area, served jolly good wine to those friends he enticed north to canvass, and came surprisingly close to winning. Since then, he has settled for a backroom role, in fund management and the party hierarchy. He is adept at both, and at wine.

Although he got on well with the hunt in his constituency, including, of course, the miners who rode to hounds, Dominic is not a Surtees character.