What a week this has been! What a great mood I’m in! Why, it’s almost like being in bed… with Georgie Wells. (Details will follow, but don’t let me mislead you. I didn’t even get to first base.) It began the day before those amber waves of grain and purple mountain majesties were celebrated, with a speech I gave before the nicest and brightest group of men you’d ever wish to meet, none of whom go to places like Gstaad or are seen in places like the Eagle. Afterwards my mate Tim Hanbury and I went hunting for women at 5 Hertford Street and ended up paralytic instead.
On 4 July, 242 years ago, the Americans rose against you-know-who and we at The Spectator marked the day with our summer party. It was wonderful, as always. Nowadays it resembles Europe, packed to the gills, and bursting at the seams. I took a pretty girl to Hertford Street afterwards and asked her to put her number into my mobile — yes, I use one when in London and on the boat — and she noticed a picture of yours truly with the mother of my children and the two kids.
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