Drink

Join me, if you will, for a short stroll down the Charing Cross Road, back in the days when it was festooned with bookshops and Morris Oxfords. At Cambridge Circus, there was a large catering equipment shop owned by my great-uncle, Bill Farnsworth. He made it big when he sold water coolers to the American military. Above the enormous ground-floor showroom was his counting house, where men in tailored suits laboured over ledgers on high sloping desks, dipping their nibs into ink pots. This would have been about 1960. Were you to have a meeting with Bill in his office, say in the late morning, he would invariably turn to his walnut drinks cabinet and offer you a glass of something reviving and strong; a sherry, port or brandy, perhaps. Armagnac? It’s very good.

On Christmas morning, as you make your first tea or begin mixing your eggnog, spare a thought for our armed forces. Since the 1890s, they have been starting Christmas Day with a drink that sounds more like a bizarre hangover cure than a festive pick-me-up.  Known as ‘Gunfire’, the drink is made of one part rum to three parts black tea. By tradition, the beverage is taken hot and is served by senior officers to junior soldiers, making it one of the few occasions in which the ordinarily inflexible roles of the military are reversed.  Although no one is quite sure how Gunfire got its name, the most compelling theory, according to the Royal Norfolk Regimental Museum, comes from an encyclopaedia compiled by Major R.D. Ambrose.

At the end of the 1970s, when I had my first taste of wine, the choice was limited. It was either cloyingly sweet German Liebfraumilch, or something from the Don Cortez or Hirondelle types, both of which were sour and brash. That, younger readers, was how bad things were, and why many of us during that time stuck to lager and lime. When Le Piat D’Or came on the market, it was, frankly, a relief. But things have changed, including my palate. Sweet or semi-sweet wines can be delicious, and bear no resemblance to the cheap German variety of my youth. Many moons ago, invited to my first posh dinner party, I was bowled over when served a lightly sweet Riesling with a fruit crumble. Riesling is a key component in Liebfraumilch, but not all Liebfraumilch is Riesling.

Bring back brothels! It’s not your typical political slogan, but Marine Le Pen’s National Rally has launched a campaign to reopen and regulate France’s brothels for the benefit of sex workers. In an interview last week Jean-Philippe Tanguy, one of Le Pen’s senior MPs, said his party would table a bill to reopen the brothels – known as maisons closes in France – which were closed in 1946. ‘The prostitutes would be empresses in their own kingdom,’ explained Tanguy. Le Pen’s party believes that regulated brothels would better protect sex workers from violence. But some on the left are outraged at the proposition. In an op-ed in the left-wing L'Humanité newspaper, 12 lawyers dismissed the idea as a ‘fascist project’.

‘Be not solitary; be not idle,’ wrote Robert Burton in The Anatomy of Melancholy. Now, 400 years later, one bar is taking his instruction to heart and banning solo drinkers. An Altrincham venue which goes by the gloriously 1990s nightclub name of Alibi will only allow groups in after 9 p.m. Owner Carl Peters said he introduced the policy after certain individuals had been ‘mithering other groups’ – ‘mithering’ being a northern word meaning to pester or make a fuss. Alibi also has a strict dress code: ‘No sportswear/trackies, no Stone Island, no ripped/frayed jeans, no baseball caps, no roadman vibes.’ I should point out to Spectator readers that a roadman isn't someone employed by the council to fix potholes, it's a young man with gangster pretensions.