An old friend phoned. Normally cheerful, he was fed up. One of his business partners was being more than usually incompetent. ‘I told him that I’d describe him as a halfwit, if I could find the half.’ We went on to discuss another couple of friends, both good men and true, who seem doomed to imminent parliamentary defenestration.
By the end of lunch, we were thoroughly benign. I was persuaded I could endure a Labour government
Then there was hunting: a passion. It survived for several years under the Blair government and it seemed clear Tony had no stomach for the ban, which was half-hearted. That witty and cynical fellow Charlie Falconer said he could not understand why anyone was complaining. The antis wanted a ban and got one. The hunters wanted to go on hunting and did. Everyone should relax. But will there be much witty cynicism in a Starmer administration? It seems unlikely.
In the spirit of there always being time for a bottle of champagne before the firing squad, my friend proceeded to ask me what I was doing for lunch. There followed a feast at Bentley’s: famous for fish. The host chose, concentrating on dishes the enemy might prohibit. ‘Would you mind if we had some foie gras between the caviar and the lobster?’ ‘I could be persuaded.’ The foie gras was as superb as any I had tasted for longer than I could recall. Occasionally these Lucullan banquets can fall short in some respects. Not Bentley’s. Everything was imperious in its excellence.
Obviously we began with champagne: Duval-Leroy, an aperitif which stood up well to the caviar. I tend to prefer vodka for fish eggs but this fizz more than did its duty. A drop of Rieussec ’09 was perfect with the foie and the Dme du Monteillet ’22 Condrieu could look the thermidor in the eye. It is curious. Half the world tries to grow the Viognier grape and the bottles are usually comfortably drinkable. Then a Condrieu appears and all the aspirants are put in their places.
We both had dinners to attend that evening so decided to be gourmets rather than gourmands, forego cheese and move straight on to pud. Eton mess, serenaded with Sauternes. Some 25-year-old Hine brought things to a mellow conclusion, abetted by a Partagas no. 4. A few years ago, friends of mine formed the Thomas Marshall society in honour of Woodrow Wilson’s vice-president. A humorous and gracious fellow, even though a Democrat, Marshall declared that what America really needed was a good five-cent cigar. Perhaps if the US had kept control of Cuba, its agricultural resources could have been properly exploited and good cigars would not be so hideously expensive today.
By the end of lunch, we were thoroughly benign. My friend swore he would not murder any of his colleagues – though he gave no such undertaking about revolting antis. I was persuaded that one could endure a Labour government, though my memory went back to 1997. That election was immediately followed by a bank holiday. Those I was staying with insisted I ought to respect the result and I agreed. The people had spoken. But because of the bank holiday I would not be writing until the following week, so my readers might not be aware I was giving the new government the benefit of the doubt for a long weekend. I shall afford the same courtesy to Sir Keir.
The key question in politics is simple. Will the Tory party pick itself up, dust itself down and emulate Bill Slim, who led a beaten army back to battle, recovery and victory? Or will it betray its traditions and its country and grovel in a mire of self-pity and recrimination, guaranteeing the Starmerites a second term and counting? There should be only one answer. In defeat, defiance. Here’s hoping.
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