Low life | 31 December 2011

I was standing on the pavement outside the Lahore Kebab House, Hendon, after a three-hour lunch, waiting for a minicab. Fifty of us had sat down at a flower-laden table to samosas and champagne, kebabs and Valpolicella. Amid a convivial uproar, our host had stood, tapped his water glass with his spoon, and made a speech of thanks and welcome. Last year, to our host’s transparent consternation, his speech was hijacked by Lord Charles, the ventriloquist’s dummy, who’d made obscene remarks about some of the guests. Today his speech was again persistently interrupted, this time by Sooty on the one hand, and by Sweep on the other, whispering irrelevant comments in his ear. At this early stage I was sitting next to an endlessly interesting Scot who’d started out in life playing left back for St Mirren. The Valpolicella was out of this world, it dawned on me after about the third glass.