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And so it went. I know it sounds hollow and juvenile and whatever the bores wish to call it, but it is a categorical imperative for me to have fun. Life is short and brutish and the barbarians have long since breached the gates and are calling the shots, so at times I feel a responsibility to curate the fun at parties by playing the fool, downing the liquor, flirting outrageously with the fair sex, and breaking the ice, so to speak. It is an ugly modern world out there, full of Russell Brand types—I wish Dylan Jones, a talented nice man, had smacked him around a bit–but we at the Spectator enjoy a mystical symbiosis with our readers, and in my case a bit of alcoholic content helps. There is no more face-to-face communication between humans, so last Friday was a time warp and I can’t wait to do it again.

Then I visited the pub across the street with Jeremy and Lloyd Evans, whom I met for the first time.

Me: “Are you a banker or a shipowner?”

Lloyd Evans: “Neither, why?

Me: “Because you’re well dressed.”

Evans: “I am a theater critic.”

Me: “Sorry, I hope I haven’t insulted you.”

Evans: “Close.”

A brief drink with the beautiful 18-year-old Spectator intern who blushed when I poured her a whiskey, and then it was on to LouLou’s to meet blonde female company and my friend Tim Hanbury, plus Princes Pavlos and Nikolaos of Greece. The night went on and on and then it was time to meet my little girl for lunch, but the less said about that the better. Daughters do not like to see their fathers in a certain state—it makes for lèse majesté—but I enjoyed the flight back because I finally got some sleep.