When the heart attack comes, and it will, pin the blame on lunches like this one. Mind you, I’d had fair warning, having seen Tom Parker Bowles the night before at a charity bash. “Leave at four, or you’re dead,” he said. “But it only kicks off at noon,” I protested. He shook his head solemnly.
This was the Boisdale editors’ lunch and awards do. It’s an annual thing, going for a decade. “I’ve taken the next three days off,” grinned the man opposite me, as the first wine went around. Boisdale, 35 this year, is a bit of a London institution, known for tartan carpets, live music, Scotch and cigars. Known for Nigel Farage calling it his favourite hang-out; known for its owner Ranald Macdonald, “Britain’s most politically incorrect restaurant owner”, if you go by Tatler. “London’s greatest restaurateur,” if you go by William Sitwell, the restaurant critic, who co-hosted the awards, alongside — perhaps improbably — Atomic Kitten Natasha Hamilton.
