sat down at his little electric organ (it cost him £400) and treated me to ‘Turn back, oh man, Forswear thy foolish ways’ which moved me deeply. There is something curiously wrong about most Welsh voices, a kind of cardboard quality under the slick of gold, which irks me greatly. Pete’s singing can reduce a public bar full of people to tears of sheer pleasure – I’ve seen it – but it always makes me feel that I’ve eaten too many Spam sandwiches.
I applauded loudly and, since he was particularly indispensable at that juncture, begged humbly for another. He gave me ‘There is a Fountain Filled with Blood,’ which never fails to please. I tottered downstairs and into the street, my bowels heavy with strong tea and foreboding.
The Bethnal Green Road at half past six on a Saturday night is not a
locus classicus
for taxis. In the end I took a bus; the conductor wore a turban and hated me on sight. I could see him memorizing me so that he could go on hating me after I’d got off.
Much depressed, I entered the flat and stood limply while Jock took my hat and coat away from me. He steered me to my favourite chair and brought me a glass of whisky calculated to stun a Clydesdale stallion. I revived enough to play a record of Amelita Galli-Curci singing ‘Un Di Felice’ with Tito Schipa; that reassured me in the
bel canto
department and the rest of the album dissipated most of the foreboding. Bathed and dinner-jacketed, I was in the mood for Wilton’s lovely
art-nouveau
décor and even more in the mood for their Oysters Mornay. I also had a baked custard, a thing I wouldn’t dream of eating anywhere else.
Home again, I was in time for a rattling John Wayne Western on the television, which I let Jock watch with me. We drank a great deal of whisky, for this was Saturday night.
I suppose I went to bed at some stage.
5
For he ’gins to guess the purpose of the garden,
With the sly mute thing beside, there, for a warden.
What’s the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side,
A leer and lie in every eye of its obsequious hide?
You must have noticed from time to time, self-indulgent reader, that brandy, unless you positively stupefy yourself with it, tends to drive sleep away, rather than induce it. I am told, by those who have drunk it, that with cheap brandy the effect is even more marked. It is otherwise with Scotch whisky; a benign fluid. All credit, I say, to the man who first invented it, be his skin of whatever hue. Indeed, my only quarrel with him is that sixteen fluid ozs of his brainchild, taken orally
per diem
for ten years or so, lessens one’s zest for the primal act. I used to think that my flagging powers were the result of advancing age combining with the ennui natural to an experienced
coureur
, but Jock disabused me. He calls it ‘brewer’s droop’.
Be that as it may, I find that drinking a sound twelve-year-old Scotch in good quantity gives me six hours of flawless slumber, followed by a compulsion to get up in the morning and bustle about. Accordingly, I got up, without the sweet coercion of Bohea, and stamped downstairs, intending to roust Jock out and point out to him the benefits of early rising. To my mild chagrin he was already up and out of the flat, so I made my own breakfast: a bottle of Bass. I can heartily recommend it. I shall not pretend that I would not haveliked a cup of tea, but the truth is that I am a little afraid of these new electric kettles: in my experience they eject their plugs savagely at you while you stand beside them waiting for them to boil.
There is only one thing to do early on a Sunday morning in London and that is to visit Club Row. I tiptoed downstairs so as not to disturb my Madame Defarge and made my way to the mews. All three cars were there but Jock’s huge motorbike, which generates enough power to light a small town, was absent. I gave a whimsical Gallic wink and shrug to a passing cat: Jock was probably in love again, I thought. When
I applauded loudly and, since he was particularly indispensable at that juncture, begged humbly for another. He gave me ‘There is a Fountain Filled with Blood,’ which never fails to please. I tottered downstairs and into the street, my bowels heavy with strong tea and foreboding.
The Bethnal Green Road at half past six on a Saturday night is not a
locus classicus
for taxis. In the end I took a bus; the conductor wore a turban and hated me on sight. I could see him memorizing me so that he could go on hating me after I’d got off.
Much depressed, I entered the flat and stood limply while Jock took my hat and coat away from me. He steered me to my favourite chair and brought me a glass of whisky calculated to stun a Clydesdale stallion. I revived enough to play a record of Amelita Galli-Curci singing ‘Un Di Felice’ with Tito Schipa; that reassured me in the
bel canto
department and the rest of the album dissipated most of the foreboding. Bathed and dinner-jacketed, I was in the mood for Wilton’s lovely
art-nouveau
décor and even more in the mood for their Oysters Mornay. I also had a baked custard, a thing I wouldn’t dream of eating anywhere else.
Home again, I was in time for a rattling John Wayne Western on the television, which I let Jock watch with me. We drank a great deal of whisky, for this was Saturday night.
I suppose I went to bed at some stage.
5
For he ’gins to guess the purpose of the garden,
With the sly mute thing beside, there, for a warden.
What’s the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side,
A leer and lie in every eye of its obsequious hide?
You must have noticed from time to time, self-indulgent reader, that brandy, unless you positively stupefy yourself with it, tends to drive sleep away, rather than induce it. I am told, by those who have drunk it, that with cheap brandy the effect is even more marked. It is otherwise with Scotch whisky; a benign fluid. All credit, I say, to the man who first invented it, be his skin of whatever hue. Indeed, my only quarrel with him is that sixteen fluid ozs of his brainchild, taken orally
per diem
for ten years or so, lessens one’s zest for the primal act. I used to think that my flagging powers were the result of advancing age combining with the ennui natural to an experienced
coureur
, but Jock disabused me. He calls it ‘brewer’s droop’.
Be that as it may, I find that drinking a sound twelve-year-old Scotch in good quantity gives me six hours of flawless slumber, followed by a compulsion to get up in the morning and bustle about. Accordingly, I got up, without the sweet coercion of Bohea, and stamped downstairs, intending to roust Jock out and point out to him the benefits of early rising. To my mild chagrin he was already up and out of the flat, so I made my own breakfast: a bottle of Bass. I can heartily recommend it. I shall not pretend that I would not haveliked a cup of tea, but the truth is that I am a little afraid of these new electric kettles: in my experience they eject their plugs savagely at you while you stand beside them waiting for them to boil.
There is only one thing to do early on a Sunday morning in London and that is to visit Club Row. I tiptoed downstairs so as not to disturb my Madame Defarge and made my way to the mews. All three cars were there but Jock’s huge motorbike, which generates enough power to light a small town, was absent. I gave a whimsical Gallic wink and shrug to a passing cat: Jock was probably in love again, I thought. When
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