Now here’s a thorny etiquette issue, worthy of Debrett’s: when is it acceptable to abandon your dining companions to accompany a stranger to a bar? Before you say “never”, would your answer be different if the stranger was Joanna Lumley, Keith Richards or the late Brian Clough? Would you not feel this was your sole chance of spending time with a living legend? Shouldn’t friends gracefully release you from the usual courtesies, rather like some couples agree to suspend vows of fidelity if George Clooney or Scarlett Johansson drops round?
I was reminded of this quandary when I heard of Christopher Hitchens’s death. In May 2001, I was in Hay for the literary festival and had arranged to meet friends for supper in an Italian restaurant. We had started our main course when the door swung open and Hitchens marched in with a face like thunder, having stormed out of Bill Clinton’s lecture. He strode up to the bar and ordered a Macallan, only to be told patrons could only purchase alcohol alongside food. At this point, the great controversialist blew a gasket. This, he raged, was why he lived in the States, since in this piddling (a choicer adjective was used) nation a man couldn’t even order a large Scotch without some bureaucrat denying him the right to eschew food.
The room had fallen silent, so I walked across to the fuming author and asked if he would care to join our table. He declared he would not stay in a place that had a bar but refused to serve drinks and stalked out. Minutes later, he walked back in, pointed at me and said, “Do you know where I can get a decent malt?” I nodded. “Come with me,” he said, holding open the door. This is when I behaved very badly, according to two members of my group, or just as they would have done themselves, according to the other five. I put down my knife and fork, picked up my coat and escorted Hitch to the well-stocked bar at the Swan Hotel, where I received a two-hour masterclass on the art of dispatching your enemies. Ten years on, I feel contrite about the incident. My behaviour was deplorable – yet I can’t say I regret it. Christopher Hitchens was a brilliant journalist and orator, and the best company you’ll find on a barstool. There are occasions, surely, when you should be granted the etiquette equivalent of a “get out of jail free” card.
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The mind boggles at what Hitchens would have made of Councillor Ernest Gibson’s tirade at “irresponsible” lunchtime drinking on Coronation Street. The South Tyneside politico is fretting about scenes in which workers at Corrie’s local underwear factory are seen drinking beer before returning to work. Clearly, he feels a responsible drama would show the returning employees chain-stitching their hands to an uplift bra. Any pub lover will tell you moderate lunchtime drinking rarely harms those accustomed to the practice. Abstinence is advisable for anyone operating heavy machinery, but surely the rest of us need not be chivvied into abandoning the pleasures of a gently nursed beverage. Indeed, I think the makers of Corrie should be praised for the way their actors sip their drinks so slowly: the antithesis of binge-drinking.
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Does anyone else think the stills of Gillian Anderson as Miss Havisham for the BBC’s new production of Great Expectations resemble a “gothic chic” photo-shoot for Vogue? Anderson’s pallid shimmer is more geisha than ghoul, while her darkened lips will have teens reaching for their Blackberry Revlon. Miss Havisham is described as having an appearance somewhere between a wax statue and a skeleton. In other words, she is terrifying. Dickens is brilliant at scaring the pants off his readers (think of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come) but the Beeb has turned his spookiest female character into a fashion plate.
