Fond farewell
Taki To 56 Doughty Street for the last sup1 per, or the embalmers' lunch, as Gore Vidal once described a class reunion. Actually, it was very moving, at least for the poor little Greek boy. Had The Spectator been a Mexican magazine, we would have shot our pistols in the air, downed tequilas and sworn death before ever defecting to another publication. Had it been Greek, everyone would have blubbed, embraced, sworn eternal friendship and so on. As it happens to be a British weekly, we had two toasts, lots of jokes and said simple goodbyes at the end. Perhaps it's better this way. Alexander Chancellor, the first sainted editor of the six I have slaved under these 30 years, presided over the last lunch in the Speccie's famed dining room upstairs. He was invited to do this by the present saint, Matthew d'Ancona, who I discovered has to be the saintliest of the six saints because he's married to a lady of the super race (a Prussian, obviously).
If I am confusing you, it is on purpose. No, it is not as yet curtains for the Greek boy, we are simply vacating the premises and 56 Doughty Street is about to become history. And what a great history it's been, even if I say so myself. Simon Courtauld tells it all in his wonderful history of the Speccie, especially the drunken lunches that took place so long ago, many of which I was lucky to attend. Alger Hiss, Dame Edna with Spiro Agnew, Kingsley Amis, Rebecca West, Prince Charles. (He asked for Jeff Bernard and myself to attend but Charles Moore refused. 'Why not?' asked the Prince. 'Because Jeff will use the F-word non-stop and the Greek boy will leak to the tabloids,' came the answer. But No. 56 was refurbished from top to bottom in anticipation of his visit.) The funny thing was we almost made it. I told Jeff to meet me across the street in the pub, and the plan was to drop in pretending to discuss future copy and to sort of meander upstairs. I waited and waited but Jeff never made it. He got too drunk at the Coach & Horses and fell asleep at the bar. There was no way I was going to pull the stunt on my own.
We were ten for lunch. Clare Asquith, who was already there when I began my Speccie run, and who asked me if I would be filing copy from jail after I was busted at Heathrow 25 years ago; Jenny Naipaul, who survived editing me when I wrote far worse than I do now; Simon Courtauld, who suggested my name to Alexander as a high-life correspondent; Geoffrey Wheatcroft, the then literary editor who now writes serious books; Patrick Marnham; Ferdy Mount; and John McEwen, all of whom were present at my arrival and all of whom have gone on to grander things, made up the table; and of course Matthew d'Ancona, whose idea the last supper was.
Oh, yes, we also had a toast to absent friends: Jeff Bernard, Bron Waugh, George Hutchinson, Jennifer Paterson, Shiva Naipaul and Frank Johnson. It is hard not to be maudlin and corny when writing about a past one loves as much as I love my years with The Spectator, especially when we were selling 6,000 copies and were deeply in debt. Lunches lasted for hours, until everyone retired to the pub, yet somehow the thing got done on time. I used to slip my copy under the door of 56 Doughty Street on my way to Annabel's, and sometimes after Annabel's, just before dawn. Once I left a love letter instead of my column, and Gina, my then editor, rang me up and told me I was knocking at the wrong door. (It wasn't meant for her, incidentally.) When Clay Felker, a famous and very successful American editor came over for lunch (he was looking for English writers for Esquire magazine but got me instead), he was appalled at the amount of drinking and all-round laid-back atmosphere of the place. 'When does anyone write?' he kept asking me.
And there were always the libel suits. I lost three in a row, to Madame MarcieRiviere, to the Aga Khan, and to Sylvester Stallone. After that, the sainted one — Dominic Lawson — decided he'd rather have a rich and boring high-life columnist then a controversial one who was broke.
I had five proprietors and six editors at 56 Doughty Street. Henry Keswick, who installed unheard-of air-conditioning in the dining room because he was overweight and felt the heat more than the rest; Algie Cluff; Fairfax; Conrad Black; and now the Barclay brothers. Chancellor, Moore, Lawson, Johnson, Johnson and d'Ancona have all edited the best magazine in the English-speaking world from the great room on the first floor. The funny thing about the Speccie, at least for me, has been the fact that in 30 years I've never had one cross word with anyone connected with it. A long time ago I said in an interview that if my Spectator days came to an end I would no longer set foot in London. Thankfully, it hasn't happened.
Next week I plan to list the best-dressed and most handsome dictators, and it's the sainted editor's suggestion, I may add, because I still like coming to London despite the foreigners.
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