High life
Race riot
Taki
im Hanbury is a curly-haired, good- looking and extremely elongated young man who gives the impression his jaws were wired tight while he was at Eton. Before his marriage, and subsequent salvation from demon drink, Timmy was the opposite of Demosthenes. When he spoke during drinks time not too many people, and cer- tainly no foreigners, could understand a single word. Timmy used to be a habitué of Annabel's, the place all good old Etonians meet after their school days are over. Although most people think that Timmy's ability to consume vast amounts of spirits was legendary, I was never impressed. After all, the taller one is, the more space one has to store it away. It's elementary.
I believe that it was during an evening when Timmy and his equally tall friend, Johnny Parry, had just about managed to fill up all available space with C2H5OH, that they decided to take a walk outside An- nabel's and get a breath of fresh air. After having negotiated the stairs and having reached the level of Berkeley Square in an upright position, they found themselves feeling faint and decided to rest for a while. It was just about that time that an enor- mous double-decker bus filled to the brim with Japanese tourists screeched to a halt in front of the Jack Barclay Rolls Royce showroom in the square. While the tourists ooh'd and aah'd at the cars that the once mighty British used to produce, the driver went for a tea break. In the meantime, Hanbury and Parry had located the bus and had climbed on board for a badly needed snooze. Needless to say, the Japanese returned and dutifully took their seats while the driver was still out on his tea break. I believe that it was about an hour later that a tourist noticed my two friends sleeping and, mistaking them for the driver, asked them to go on with the night tour of London. The two were only too happy to oblige.
I shall not dwell on the details of that tour. It seems that Parry did the driving while Hanbury navigated. The intrepid pair decided they had had enough only after road blocks were set up by the anti-terrorist squad somewhere near Piccadilly and Hyde Park Corner. They ditched the bus and calmly returned to their imbibing at An- nabel's. In spite of their enebriated state the damage was minimal. About 25 cars had been side-swiped, 15 lamp-posts had been up-ended and four stores had been broken into and entered by the front of the bus.
Once back at Annabel's, the navigator of the trip was told that perhaps he had had enough to drink. The suggestion wounded Timmy's pride. He bet the barman that he could still beat him in a race around Berkeley Square. The barman could not refuse the challenge. Once again, Hanbury negotiated the stairs to Berkeley Square. Despite the presence of police looking for the culprits (and led in their investigation by the driver of the bus who had returned two hours after his tea break to find it missing), road blocks and the whole of Annabel's who had come out to cheer the contestants, the race went off without a hitch. Hanbury won by a nose and in the flush of victory dedicated a silver cup to be awarded to the winner of the annual race. Which brings me to the main point of my story.
The race is run once around Berkeley Square at 3 a.m. on 1 April. The names of the winners are inscribed on the large silver cup, and a smaller silver cup is given to the winner. Both clients and personnel of An- nabel's can take part in the Hanbury Cup. The rules are as follows: Contestants have to start drinking as early as possible. Wear- ing running shoes is commensurate with leaving one's wounded batman in the field of battle and saving yourself. Training for the race, or drinking ginger ale before it in- stead of spirits is not exactly considered fair.
The start of the race is given by a pistol shot, which more often than not brings the police to the scene. Three years ago, the shot was heard by an intrepid copper who ran to the square, saw a bunch of hooligans running from the scene of the crime, and bravely tackled Johnny Parry who was run- ning last. By the time he managed to ex- plain, he had spent a night in the cooler.
The most heart-rending story is that of Christopher Gilmour, son of Sir Ian. Christopher ran the race and led it all the way. For some inexplicable reason, however, he chose to run on the outside perimeter of the square, thus adding 200 yards to a 300-yard race. He also chose to run in ski boots. After leading all the way, he collapsed with cramp 2 yards from the finish.
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