Where two or three British males are gathered together, the agenda often includes a glass or two. One thing can lead on to another. To facilitate the supply of glasses, clubs are sometimes formed. These can vary in size and splendour, from the palaces of Pall Mall to the working men’s clubs where the young William Hague delivered beer and sampled the deliveries. (He was unwise to quantify his efforts. It would have been better if he had merely said that from time to time, it was not just the barrels which were rolling.)
There are also clubs within clubs. A couple of us have stumbled into irregular sessions which we have called ‘the odd bottles’. The conversation varies: nature conservancy in the Highlands, reactionary politics, the law — the two latter ought to be a distinction without a difference. Even if there are no amusing black cap anecdotes these days, most lawyers are good conversationalists. As Dr Johnson put it, they like folding their legs and having their talk out.
A couple of decades ago, there was a Johnsonian journalist, George Gale. He often held court in the Cheshire Cheese, then a splendidly old-fashioned pub. The Cheese is only round the corner from Gough Square, and one day, a couple of American matrons came in to ask directions. ‘Say, could you tell us the way to Dr Johnson’s house?’ George replied. ‘I am Dr Johnson. This is my house. Now fuck off.’
We bottles convened the other evening. Proceedings started with Hermann Donnhof’s ’07 Riesling Kabinett. Donnhof is the best Nahe producer that I have come across, and this was a delight. Though only a Kabinett, it was almost too big for food. Foie gras, perhaps, or a fish pie, but it is a wine designed to be drunk on a misty morning in November, with a slice of fruit cake, overlooking the Rhine.
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