OK. It is early 1964, the Profumo scandal has proved beyond reasonable doubt that English men can also be swingers (and with women, to boot), and my friend Yanni Zographos and I have just had a big win upstairs at Aspinall’s and are taking the circular inside staircase that connects Annabel’s with the casino. Suddenly two nuns block our way. My first thought is a prurient one. Both nuns are great lookers. Then, out of the blue, one of them begins to undo Yanni’s fly and quicker than you can say Monica Lewinsky she services him. I am in my twenties, I am shocked and appalled that a nun would do such a thing, but all sorts of crazy ideas are fogging up my mind. What to do next? Not to worry; Louis, the great maître d’ for more than 30 years, starts up the stairs chiding the nuns and tells them the game is up. ‘You can keep the money but off you go….’
The nuns turned out to be hookers who knew that winners leave the tables and go dancing, whereas losers stay upstairs chasing after their loot. Dressing up as nuns gave them an extra kick. Soon after, I met Mark Birley. He wanted to know whether dressing hookers up as nuns was a particularly Greek perversion, or were we just innocent bystanders? When we told him we were the latter he almost smiled, a wintry kind of snicker which hinted at doubt more than anything. Welcome to England, studied nonchalance and, dare I say it, not a small amount of xenophobia. Yet until George opened (four years ago, I believe), Mark Birley had given strict orders that none of his clubs would charge me annual dues. His only request was that I keep it to myself, as other members would surely have complained.
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