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The day started quite calm and controlled, with an exciting sales team meeting, a busy atmosphere and some fun banter in the office.
Alistair, my CEO and mate, and I were both strangely dressed and at times receiving odd glances, of either curiosity, sympathy and on rare occasions undeserved admiration. For the time since the last wedding or funeral, we were wearing jackets and ties. This code of dress was not by choice, but by instruction of the place we were going to later.
My wife dutifully dropped us off at the station, and by 3pm were in the bar at The Cavendish Hotel in Jermyn Street, Mayfair, London. As we sat and chatted about our current crazy business opportunities over a beer, and then another, we were served a dish of nuts. The salted peanuts were tasty, the chilli peanuts removed a coating from the top of my mouth and I am pretty confident that even a starving orangutan would not have enjoyed the ridiculous wasabi nuts any more than I did. At the time we did not consider the time of 3pm to have any relevance, but as our day unfolded it was to become so.
As usual, our conversation had slowly deteriorated in direct line with the alcohol consumption, and it soon occurred to us it was time to move on to our pre-evening event meeting place. Around the corner was The Blue Posts, a traditional London inn tucked away beside the Ritz hotel. Inside the choice of beers did not disappoint and soon we were enjoying our next pint. As we had started our second ‘Blue Post’ pint, a number of the ‘significant industry faces’ started to arrive. Lively conversations ensued, over another drink of course.
Suddenly, someone realised it was 7pm and we were supposed to be at the evening event we had all come to attend. At the same time, a quick glance in each other’s eyes, and Alistair & I realised we had started drinking far too early!
Another brief walk, around another corner, and we were in St James, being signed into The Carlton Club. The evening event was our Industry Trade Association Patrons Dinner. We enjoyed our welcome glass of bubbly as we said hello and quickly caught up with many old friends. A glance around the room and it was quickly evident that there was some significantly important and influential people in the room, and then Alistair and me.
The Carlton Club was just as you may expect a gentleman’s club to be, with sweeping staircases, ornate ceilings & wood panelling. There was also slight feeling of faded grandeur, and a lick of new paint here and there would not have gone amiss.
As we were called to the private dining room we were greeted by our host for the evening, Brian Binley MP. The room had portraits on the wall that included Willie Whitelaw, John Major, Sir Geoffrey Howe and some bloke in a pair of rather fetching tights. The private room had a table to seat our party of eighteen, and the dresser in the corner was groaning from what must have been at least 24 prepared bottles of wine.
Wasting no time, our glasses were soon filled by the swarm of waiters, to be followed soon after with our first course. Our menu informed us we were drinking Macon-Uchizy 2009 and Chateau Lafitte 2009 Premier Cotes de Bordeaux, and each of the waiters must have been trained at ’eagle school’, as they could spot any glasses that had less than two mouthfuls left from over one hundred paces. As we set about eating the well-presented and thoughtfully cooked menu below, the guys doing the ‘wine glass spotting’ were filling everyones glass almost every nano-second. Before the end of the starter my jacket was off and tie askew.
Carlton Club Patrons Dinner Menu
Sea Bass, Tiger Prawn & Cabbage Terrine with Samphire and a Tomato & Lemon Dressing
Breast of Duck with Israeli Couscous, Salted Lime Apple Puree & Red Wine Reduction
Peach Sorbet
Roasted Sirloin of ‘Aberdeen Angus’ Beef with Horseradish Rosti, Braised Cabbage Parcel, Crispy Bone Marrow, Glazed Baby Turnips and a Shallot & Parsley Jus
Raspberry, Lemon and Basil Milles Feuilles with Milk Chocolate Ice Cream & Chocolate Tuiles
Filter Coffee with Club Mints
As we finished our main course, the evening’s chairman commenced a ‘round the table’ discussion on a number of topics pre-submitted by the patrons. As the ‘hot topics’ created some heated debates, some great comments and a few ridiculous one’s were heard, we were both still able to comprehend what was going on, so things were going well. Indeed, we were really enjoying everyone's company, although we could not confidently say that this was reciprocated. Topics over, some ego’s bruised, and some learning & understanding gained, we were taken up the grand staircase to the member lounge. If you have ever seen a seventies movie where the spy meets the MP in a gentleman’s club, this was the location. All leather chairs, hushed tones, some important looking political figures and a few that looked like they simply sat in the house and made up the numbers.
As I conquered the massive winding staircase, I was greeted with a voice from afar; “Excuse me sir”. “It’s alright, I’m with him” I said. “No sir, I wanted to ask if you would please put your jacket on”. A simple request, but breathing was tough enough in the heat of the building, and finding the energy to get my arms through the holes was quite a challenge. “Could I ask”; I said. “When I pass out from heat exhaustion, can you get an ambulance quickly?”. Quick as a flash, the smart official said; “You will be fine sir, we have plenty of first aiders in the building”.
Having made the most of The Carlton Club's lounge hospitality (& bar), last orders were called. Some bright spark then suggested we go for a nightcap. Soon we were back outside The Blue Posts pub, but it was shut. At this stage, any sensible person would have seen that as an omen that it was time to go home. We, as you would expect, didn’t.
The eminent group of professionals were now a meandering crew of motley party goers, but still bright enough to find another pub that was open, and the fun and frolics continued until closing time at 1am. Of the 14 or so people still standing, around three or four sensibly decided it was now time to go home. We were in the other group, and at the same time blissfully unaware we had missed our train back home more than an hour ago.
Magically, as always happens in a group, someone had another bright idea; “I saw a nightclub over the road that’s still open, let’s go there”. “OK” responded the one’s that could still talk without slurring. A remaining coherent group member negotiated with the club’s door team and we were all soon inside. The décor was as glitzy as expected, the bar prices as extortionate as you hear, however, the ladies wandering around with their clothes having fallen off was a bit of a surprise, not least to the two ladies who were in our group. Having already ordered drinks it was too late to run, but they soon got consumed and we were on our way.
Outside, the dark side of London were plying their trade and it was definitely time to go home now. It then of course hit us that we had no train to get home on until 7am. Whoops, ….there was only one thing for it, and we hailed a black cab. The simple words “Guildford please” lit up the dark coloured eyes of our Hackney cab operator. Back at Guildford we hopped out, and smiled with complete acceptance of our self-inflicted calamity, and paid the nice man £125.
As we stood on the drive, Alistair engaged his brain and said; “I live in Ash Vale, how do I get there now?”. “No idea”, was the helpful reply, “But come in for a drink and we will think it through.”
As we shuffled up the drive, we made a pact to be as quiet as possible, both knowing that waking my wife would result in an unprovoked attack with the nearest blunt instrument. Once inside we were convinced we were like fluffy footed door mice, but our dogs rampant barking sort of disturbed the calm. Thankfully, my wife slept through the massive storms of the eighties, and never even flickered.
As we sat in the kitchen chatting over the day’s events, Alistair was also considering his options, and I was pouring two drinks for us. As Alistair drunk what he was given, and I weirdly enjoyed a Baileys, we noticed the clock. It was gone 3am, and a full 12 hours since we were sitting in The Cavendish.
“How am I getting home?” was the final evening’s question. A short joint consideration, and his wife had been sent a text and Alistair was off up to crash in our spare room.
I have to ask myself ‘At what stage does a 56 year old man grow up?’. I suspect Mick Jagger hit it on the head when he said; ”The older I get, the more immature I become!”.
Never again.
www.carltonclub.co.uk
www.thecavendish-london.co.uk
If you are wondering what the 40 B4 40 Dining Challenge is all about, please click here and all will be explained.
The Carlton Club - My Wife's Version of Events
Having waved my wonderful husband off at the station at 3 o’clock yesterday afternoon, looking dashing all suited and booted, and wishing him and our colleague and friend, Alistair, a pleasant evening. I returned home to my work to then get ready for my good pal Nikki coming round to get her nails done, have some food, and chill out in front of the TV. Perfect girls night in, with no husband to annoy me. Having had a call at 5.30pm to find out they were on their 2nd pub or pint, I don’t remember, I knew they were in for a good night, and didn’t expect he would be home before I went to bed.
Having waved Nikki off in a taxi around 11, I stuffed my face with the food we hadn’t eaten earlier (v. Fat) and off to bed. Prior to going to bed I sent the obligatory ‘you OK?’ text, to which I received no response. Silly me, usually I bypass my husband with text messages and send them directly to Alistair as I usually find that does get a response. Not this time – oh well – they were together so off I went to sleep.
Woke up quite early (for me) this morning around 6.30, glanced to my right, confirmed husband had returned from night before. I am a particularly heavy sleeper, and even though he is a particularly noisy husband, it appeared he had successfully appeared at some point between midnight and 6.30am – excellent.
Wanted to get my cleaning done this morning before work – so even before my 2nd cup of tea (totally out of character now on two counts) – I had sorted the dogs out and was wandering about with the duster in hand. I was just about to go up to the spare room to do the ironing when, what could be best described as the Hunny Monster with a Bad Head, stumbled down the stairs. ‘Morning Dear’, I cheerfully offered with a wave of my duster and a cuppa, to be greeted with something incomprehensible, followed by the question ‘Where is Alistair?’. Well this one stopped me in my tracks, as I had not considered I would need to know where Alistair was at this time in the morning. Off shuffled the Hunny Monster with the Sore Head, and it came back to mumble ‘He is in the spare room but not moving very fast’ – brilliant – two of them. It was going to be a bad day, but I had a plan.
First question done – ‘Alistair, does your wife know where you are?’ – affirmative. OK on to important stuff then.
