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.
Get Britain's best politics newsletters
Register to get The Spectator's insight and opinion straight to your inbox. You can then read two free articles each week.
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in