Où sont les bouteilles d’antan? For that matter, où sont les amis with whom one consumed them? These autumnally melancholic musings arose because a young friend asked me about Alan Clark. He had been reading the Diaries. Were they truthful? Was Alan really such a remarkable character? The answer was simple. An emphatic yes, on both counts. I suspect that I speak for most of his muckers when I declare that I have never met anyone who was more fun.
The 1967 Yquem tasted like a Greek temple melted down in honey. Alan served it as a house wine
If Alan was of the company, the conversation might well have a whiff of sulphur. But one could rely on spice and scintillation. Alan’s very walk presaged mischief. He had a way of swivelling from the hip, like a naval gun crew trying to identify a target. That did not imply malice. Alan enjoyed wit among equals.
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