How to drown your sorrows

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.

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.