Confessions of a drink driver on a ‘rehab’ course

I blame Matthew d’Ancona, esteemed editor of this organ, for his over-generous hospitality. It was after one of The Spectator’s pre-Christmas celebrations that I was breathalysed and banned from driving for a year, later reduced to nine months if I underwent counselling. It all started when, as an occasional Spectator scribe since 1974, I received a last-minute invitation to a dinner for readers to meet contributors. It was 6 p.m. and I was in the Evening Standard’s offices in Kensington. The dinner was at the Royal Hospital, Chelsea, at 7.15, and I had to get home to Camberwell six miles away to change into a dinner jacket.

As I later told Camberwell Green Magistrates’ Court, I was full of remorse and regret about what happened, especially as I have a freedom pass. I was caught out by a bizarre sequence of events. When I got home I found our next-door neighbour, a lady in her mid-fifties, being beaten up by a gang of hoodies on my doorstep.