High life
Gang show
Take
In the years of my youth, a period as it now seems approximating the Battle of Marathon, I counted among my many British friends such over-achievers as Charles Benson, Sir William Pigott- Brown, Rupert Deen, Dai Llewelyn, Nigel Dempster and Lord Lucan. With the ex- ception of his lordship, what united us all
was a love for hookers and drink, Lucky Lucan being addicted to the latter but monogamous by nature, a great failing as it turned out, Although his disappearance did not affect us per se, soon after Lucky dropped out things began to change. Benson got out of debt, fathered a daughter and married a respectable girl, not necessarily in that order. William Pigott-Brown went into business and emerged much the poorer for it. Alas, poor Rupert Deen decided to go to work, a catastrophic decision in retro- spect. Dirty Dai also became. . er. . respectable, by fronting nightclubs for people who think Pentonville is a school. Yours truly turned into an intellectual and gave up ladies of the night for young girls who look virginal but could teach the pros a thing or two. Dempster, needless to say, left Lloyd's and became the greatest diarist since Madame La Tour du Pin. In fact, he even began to look like her. The old gang had changed for good. But not really.
Last week, while in the process of distancing myself from rowdy Jeffrey Ber- nard fans queuing for tickets in Soho, I drove to the furthermost western part of London and ran into my old buddies by chance. Nothing had changed but the size of their waistlines. There were more empty wine bottles on the table than Fergie has new best friends, the talk was about the horrendous lack of good hookers nowa- days, and bets were being placed over the telephone with interruptions for imbibing and the occasional bite.
No, the soiled miseries of domesticity had not as yet afflicted this little group, although Dai Llewelyn did try to raise a family and further suffocate an overpopu- lated world. Ditto Nigel, who has really let the side down by making his marriage work. William and Rupert, of course, have remained the chevaliers sans pear et sans reproche. They are still wenching and boozing it up, and I sat at their table envying them not a little bit. And reminisc- ing quite a lot. About 15 years ago William had me to stay at his wonderful house in the country and gave me the best room in the place. I was with the mother of my children and after a very liquid dinner she and I went to bed and everyone im- mediately followed. I was rather touched, because they were treating me like royalty of the pre-Fergie type. But Alexandra had a bee in her bonnet that night and she accused me of something that led to a fight, and we turned our backs on each other, read the newspapers and went to sleep. In the morning Charles Benson was the first to boo, followed by the host and the rest of the motley crew. It seems everyone had gone to bed early in order to watch the show through a strategi- cally placed two-way mirror, but our little tiff had spoiled it. So much so that poor William had to apologise to his guests. Needless to say, I haven't been asked since.
On the day we all lunched together we discovered that it was the anniversary of Dai Llewelyn's getting engaged to three girls simultaneously 13 years before. So more drinks were called for, more bets were placed, and then it was time for some serious searching for ladies. That is when I left my old gang to their old tricks and went home as a man my age should. And if you believe that you'll believe anything.
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