...took place on a rainy night in Soho, and featured appearances by Billy, Llewtrah, Rockmother, Slaminsky and one's good self. Subjects touched upon included harpsichords, the general grooviness of Derek Griffiths, and what a shame it was that LC had chosen to stay at home with his Judy Garland records rather than joining us.
But the best moment came as we loitered outside the French House, a hostelry otherwise frequented by actors you sort of recognise from telly, except that the people you're thinking of are dead (in this case, the one who looks like Denis Quilley, but gayer, and the more ginger Ian Bannen). As we supped and ruminated, a gentleman whose liver had known better days came among us.
"I'll not lie," he announced, always a good start, "I'm asking for money so I can buy myself a drink."
Touched by his barefaced honesty, we each contributed a bit of fiscal shrapnel. And as he staggered away, Billy said:
"I'll be bloody pissed off if he goes and buys a cup of tea with that."
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