An evening of Soho-ness, playing the layabout pauper wined and dined by the successful and kind. Call round artist Sebastian Horsley’s place, with his cabinet of human skulls, photos of his own crucifixion, and clippings from the times he’s been on the front of the News Of The World. He’s a fellow Quentin Crisp fan, charming and friendly, which is the way it should be for someone who gets complaints when he’s appeared in the national media. Offend the masses, befriend the individuals. The opposite to left-wing newspaper editors, who like humanity but dislike people.
He takes me off to tea at Maison Bertaux, next to the Coach and Horses, which is filled with Japanese girls for some reason. Then onto the members-only Colony Rooms, finally completing the quartet of legendary Soho Boho drinking holes I’ve read about for so long. Groucho Club, French House, Coach and Horses – I’ve visited them all several times by now. But not the Colony till today. Up the famous green stairs to the tiny bar room. Homely and cosy. No Muriel Belcher anymore (as played by Tilda Swinton in the Francis Bacon biopic Love Is The Devil), but she’s alive in umpteen clippings on the wall.
‘See if you spot my own two artworks,’ says Mr H.
I spy the photo of his ‘crucified’ hand. The other is a Bacon-esque dark painting. We stop for a drink and raise a toast to carrying the torch. Chat to his friend Carla, who’s off to see Richard Ashcroft play in Camden tonight. Throughout his career with and without The Verve, Mr Ashcroft has been given so many second chances by the UK music industry – far more than other artists of varying form. O ‘Lucky Man’ indeed. Down one glass of red wine. All the Colony Room glasses have stencilled slogans provided by an artist whose name escapes me: ‘Thief’ , ‘C**ty’ (the Muriel Belcher catchphrase), ‘Robocock’.
On my glass it says, ‘Wanker’.
Spot a row of DVD sleeves wall-mounted above the doorway of the club as we leave. I wonder why they’re there. One of them is the cover of ‘Mysterious Skin’, far and away my favourite film of the last few years. I touch it on my way out. For luck, for respect, for thanks.
Onto the Marlborough Gallery for the private view of the new Maggi Hambling exhibition: portraits and sea paintings. Mr Horsley is one of the worm-faced subjects on display here, and his portrait is sold for what he says is several hundred times more expensive than the real Sebastian Horsley, a former escort. Guzzle a glass of champagne.
Thence to the Sartoria restaurant for dinner. I wasn’t invited, but Ms Hambling thinks I’m beautiful enough to be squeezed in. Among our party is George Melly, who gives us a speech and a rude song. Ms Hambling is a fantastic host, pure Bohemian Soho, full of naughty gossip about famous names, and tales of Hadleigh, Suffolk, where she comes from, close to where I myself grew up. In fact, my father once taught art to her father, at a local evening class.
Chat to Ms Jane Joseph, who was at art school in the 60s with Ms Hambling, Ms Mary Miller, and Ms Libby Hall. The latter’s card describes her as a collector of dog photographs pre-1940. Eat a three course dinner, including duck and sea bream. Down many glasses of red wine. Am greeted by Rhodri M’s girlfriend Jenny, at a wine-tasting in the same restaurant. Kiss Ms Hambling and Mr Melly goodnight. I forgot to mention to Ms H that I once posed on her Oscar Wilde bench sculpture for a photo.
I feel very obliged to the lot of them, and must pay them back somehow. Like Mr Ashcroft, I feel a lucky man given umpteen second chances.
