It is perhaps fitting that the most important retrospective of the work of Francis Bacon – the greatest British painter of the 20th Century – opened in the same week as his old watering hole, The Colony Room called last orders for the final time. You probably didn’t have to strain too hard to hear the spectral voice of Muriel Belcher snapping waspishly: “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, cunty”, as the last of the disparate crew of drinkers dispersed into Soho for the last time; descending its creaking wooden stairs past the sign that announced sternly: “This Is Not A Brothel”.
The first time I ascended those stairs I nearly got knocked back down again by John Hurt who was being helped on his way by alcohol, gravity and a gentle push from some burly chaps, who shouted after him: “Fuck off!” I was signed in by a journalist friend; even then the membership was on the wrong side of £500 per year. It was a lot of money just to have access to a bar (“Don’t call it a club – they’ll tear your eyes out”) not much bigger than the bathroom of your average Wetherspoons dive. The dingy green paint work (“Emerald? EMERALD?! That’s bloody peacock green!”) contained a motley bunch of characters; professional ponces, the almost destitute aristocracy, resting poets and actors, artists – all of them entertaining; all of them thirsty. While waiting for a drink I noticed a slightly nicotine enhanced Damien Hirst spot painting propped up behind the optics, gathering ash and other detritus, money knocked off its six figure value with every shot of whisky poured no doubt. (The urbane manager Michael Wojas told me that if the insurance on the art contained in the little space got any more expensive then he’d have to shut up shop for sure – perhaps this is what happened? One thirsty punter Michael Andrews had his slate cleaned in return for painting a mural for the bar known as Muriel’s. It is estimated this piece will fetch around £30,000 when auctioned this month.) It was, they said, the anti-Cheers. A bar where everyone knew your name but called you cunt all the same.
A good looking woman of indeterminate age spied me and announced: “Darling, there’s something wrong with my tits. Would you give them a squeeze for me please?”
I stuttered for a second before she grabbed my hands and placed them on her chest. “Go on!” she yelled. “Give them a good squeeze.” I obliged and she demanded: “Well?”
“They’re fine.”
“FINE?!”
“They’re fabulous, I mean.”
She brightened, released my hands and said: “Excellent. EXCELLENT! You’d better buy me a gin and tonic then!”
I reeled from punter to punter who in turn reeled me in. I stood at the bar ordering a G&T while some clattered posh guy told me about the ideal shoes to wear for fighting. (“For God’s sake don’t wear sandals or Wellington boots.”) What a bunch of freaks. I felt immediately at home.
