ET's rule on kedgeree eating between 3-6am needs further information. He hasn't been pulling his weight on this thread for a while now. It is after all his home turf.
Balls.
And 21sts, usually in marquees and country piles, with lots of japes and jollity. Kedgeree is de rigueur, and usually fairly revolting, at 3 or 4 in the morning. Bacon rolls come later.
Wild horses wouldn't drag me to balls, and 21sts are a thing of the past. Well, in theory, because of friends and their children, so I found myself as a guest at one not a year ago, but long before kedgeree time I was warmly ensconced in the drawing room with Lady Mary and a group of Oxford undergrads who were having a debate, one that was notable for both its breadth and its intellectual rigour, about philosophy. Most of it went way over my head, either because I was distracted by Lady Mary - who far from being the elderly chatelaine you might expect is a much in demand club DJ upon whose various Instagram feeds one can while away many a rainy (or indeed sunny) afternoon - or because I'm far too stupid, or because the time of day had rendered me emotional. The Champagne was Pol Roger White Foil, and the claret not unexpectedly that failsafe of the gentried classes, Ch Leoville Barton, but the vintage has escaped me.
Anyway, to cut a long story long, by the time I had summoned up the strength to tear myself away from the scintillating company in the drawing room, the kedgeree was an already long gone and almost certainly unhappy memory, and the kids were back in the rave tent, where they stayed until 8 in the morning. I did get a bacon roll, and it was every bit as cold and disgusting as expected, the bacon having entered into some kind of secondary rigor-mortis. I recall nothing that occurred later.
Oh, he'll be having an argument on another thread somewhere... or playing football with his gravel-voiced client prior to a glass or two of Whispering Angel.
You know, my appetite for bickering and annoying people elsewhere has palled since the election, though I do have the odd damp squib attempt at it. However, now you've mentioned football and Whispering Angel, I feel myself bristling afresh. Suffice it to say, neither would I wilfully touch.
Talking of Sir Tartan, I heard a song on my Spotify feed the other day that sounded just like The Faces, but without the gravel-voiced one. It was really very good, and investigation revealed that it was indeed a Rodless Faces piece. When I was young they used to use our village hall for practice sessions, the better because it was remote and they could go loud without causing to much disturbance. The hall is long gone, and I have often wondered if the exciting racket that they made finally overwhelmed the rather flimsy structure.
