DIARY
NIGEL DEMPSTER What a dreary occasion Derby Day has become. The first Wednesday in June, when the Blue Riband of the Turf (as Dis- raeli called the classic race) is traditionally run, used to welcome upwards of 250,000 people to Epsom Downs, reverberating with its funfair and annual convocation of gypsies. Over the last decade the crowds and the travellers have dwindled — one estimate put last year's attendance at 25,000 — and sadly the race itself has lost its charisma as the world's foremost test over one and a half miles for three-year-old thoroughbreds. No one is able to pinpoint exactly why interest has dwindled so dra- matically other than that fashions change and even the royal family seem to have become bored with the event. But there was a resurgence this week with the Queen, Prince Philip, the Princess Royal, the Queen Mother, the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester and Princess Alexandra and Sir Angus Ogilvy all signalling their intention of attending. Once, most of the Cabinet were on parade and Epsom reserved a box for its Member of Parliament (gratefully filled for many years by Sir Peter, now Lord, Rawlinson), but now MPs cravenly avoid situations where they might be seen by their constituents to be enjoying them- selves.
A. dozen years ago, Sir Gordon White tried to enliven proceedings after Ever Ready, a subsidiary of the Hanson con- glomerate whose American operations he ran, became the first sponsor of the Derby. He imported friends, including Roger Moore, Liza Minnelli, Joan Collins and George Hamilton, even Cilia Black, Tommy Steele, George Cole and the ubiq- uitous Sir David Frost. They were wined and dined in a marquee overlooking the Winning post cheek by jowl with Ever Ready battery salesmen and assorted press who fell among the celebrities and Sir Gor- don's champagne with gusto. For a while BBC radio and ITV even broadcast pro- grammes from the lawn in front of the mar- quee, while the gawping public were held at bay by a platoon from the Corps of Com- missionaires. But White was elevated to the Peerage by a grateful Mrs Thatcher in her resignation honours list and no longer feels able to make the journey from his Bel Air, -,os Angeles, mansion, and his crowd-pleas- ing 'stars' have moved on to other delights. This week is the company's last year of involvement, leaving Epsom, recently taken Over by the Jockey Club subsidiary Race- course Holdings Trust for £30.25 million, frantically searching for a replacement. It shouldn't be too hard — among the rewards is tea with Her Majesty, although John Major is unlikely to follow his prede- cessor's path of honouring the generous sponsor.
Last week found me at Grayshott, the Hampshire 'health fitness retreat', fasting and exercising for four days so that I was able to don my morning coat, made for me in trimmer days for the Derby. The first time I went to a health farm was a quarter of a century ago when the regime was spar- tan — only a grapefruit and hot lemon water which, combined with exercise and sauna or steam baths, ensured dramatic weight loss, while these days some offer alcohol and all prepare enticing menus. Forest Mere, now owned by the Savoy Hotels Group, was then run by a Nigel Patrick lookalike, who called me in when he realised I was a journalist. Among his guests, he told me, was a sheikh from Kuwait who weighed 24 stone, and he, like Forest Mere, desired total anonymity. I nodded and mumbled something sympa- thetic about such obesity, to which the Nigel Patrick figure replied, 'You don't understand — he only weighed 18 stone when he arrived here two months ago.' It appeared that the sheikh had soon despaired of the diet and had ordered his chauffeur to make a daily drop in Forest Mere's grounds of whisky and grub, which he set about ravenously. Legend has it that the Kuwaiti also was responsible for the transformation of The Links, the pub at the entrance to Forest Mere's drive opposite the Liphook golf club. He appeared demanding delicacies and the landlord soon realised that there was scope for an upgrading of his victualling. Soon it stocked the finest champagnes and seafood, and had acquired the nickname of The Crab and Lobster. I believe it changed hands a few years ago for more than £1 million.
When does a chef give in to his crit- ics? A couple of months go I was delighted to find a new restaurant a two-minute walk from my home, the more so because it was being opened by Stephen Bull for whose cooking I used to journey to Richmond when he was at Lichfield's, an award-win- ning restaurant in an unprepossessing sub- urban terrace. After moving from Rich- mond, Bull opened in Marylebone with Richard Corrigan as his chef and now he has installed the Irishman at Fulham Road, which was once an excellent establishment called Le Frangais. The venture has now been visited by all the critics, starting with the Evening Standard's Fay Maschler back in March, and while Michael Winner com- mended it save for the decor, every other reviewer has complained that some dishes are too salty. In Craig Brown's review two weekends ago the salt content was high- lighted several times, and included in the headline. Has Mr Corrigan wilted in the face of this onslaught? I visited Fulham Road again as a reward for losing three quarters of a stone at Grayshott and was delighted to find that he had changed his recipes not one bit. But perhaps I am not the best judge — my mother, I remember, used to encourage me to put salt on my breakfast marmalade.
This weekend will find me heading for Normandy, but unlike the other hundred thousand or so who will be commemorating D-Day I am joining 90 of my colleagues of the Northcliffe Golfing Society, drawn from all areas of our great group, for our annual tournament at Hardelot, just down the coast from Le Touquet, and its John Aspinall-owned casino whose bank I will attempt to break. The event is presided over by Viscount Rothermere, chairman of the Daily Mail and General Trust, and with some trepidation I discover that I will be playing in his team for the Sunday green- somes and four-ball. My game is rusty, to say the least, with just two rounds in the last year, neither of which left me with much confidence. A few years back, Lord R and his partner were on the last green needing to hole a lengthy and tricky put to win the day. Stepping up, the partner smartly despatched the ball into the hole and, by coincidence, was promoted to an editorship in Associated Newspapers short- ly afterwards. If next week I'm out of a job, you'll know why.
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