The embattled Prime Minister is not the only one being dogged by Blairite woes. I ran into his namesake Lionel, my friend of 50 years, in Sloane Square. He is still deeply upset about the theft of his beloved pooch, nabbed while his wife was walking in the park. Misty-eyed, he tells me that Debbie Forsyth (Bruce’s nipper to you) has just called with the awful news that her two Yorkies have been stolen. I say I’ve heard there’s a terrific trade in pet theft. Lionel’s eyes brighten. ‘Ooh. I haven’t had terrific trade for ages.’
In the late 1950s David Bailey and I used to frequent a very straight pub in darkest Dalston called the Deuragon, where the mums would proudly watch as their sons transformed into Marlene Dietrichs or Mae Wests. A Sunday or so ago, Roland Mouret, Dr Andrew Merron and I were the judges of the ‘Vogue’ Ball, held at the Horse Meat Disco in violet-hued Vauxhall. The ‘girls’ have rather more homegrown role models now. A Naomi chucked her mobile at a brawny, tattooed maid, and a Kate snorted her way up the catwalk. Talk about a line of beauty.
After a 20-year break I’ve rejoined the Colony Room. The last genuinely bohemian Soho drinking club left is still redolent of its legendary proprietress Muriel Belcher, and her immortal greeting ‘F*** off, c***’ is still habitually hurled at every arrival. The unchanged premises, a maze of Melly memorabilia, Bacon bits and Lucian ends, are refreshingly filthy and fire-hazardy, as indeed are its friendly, funny members. And behind the bar Richard Bradsell ices up the coolest Mules this side of Moscow.
It was interesting to read about the recently unveiled restorations at Kew Palace, in many ways the most touching of all the royal residences, tiny, and redolent of Georgian madness and that inscribed dog-collar — ‘I am His Highness’ dog at Kew; Pray, tell me sir, whose dog are you?’ Last autumn one of our leading actresses asked me to decorate a gala dinner at another palace to raise funds for Kew’s restoration.
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