The Irish Tales

Second Life (17)
　
　
I look around the dining room and do a quick headcount. I see Dave the Don, Kiss of Death, Old Frank, Too-tall Stu, Mad John, The Welshman, Jezza, Marc the Wop, The Arg and myself.
We have a full house. Plus two guests, Brian and Marty, though Brian was voted in just minutes before he arrived, which is why he has no nickname.Yet.
We are The Usual Suspects, a very exclusive luncheon club, which meets roughly 4 or 5 times a year at the Hellenic restaurant in Ayer Street, Marylebone.
Yes, the name comes from the film, but there all resemblance ends. We are no cunning, violent criminals. We are worse. We are (or were) all admen.
Let me explain.
I have mentioned the Hellenic restaurant before in these columns, (SL8) so no further description is necessary.
Apart from to say that it is located a mere 4 minutes stroll from where Abbot Mead Vickers used to be located, the ad agency where I and all the other Suspects worked, (or pretended to work) at some time or another.
I first began frequenting the place about 30 years ago and at one point I lunched there every single weekday. And often stayed on for dinner. Its clientele were a strange and combustive mixture of admen and horseracing addicts. Being both, I loved the place.
I loved it so much that I lived there, briefly, in the flat above.
I even tried to buy it once, but that’s another story altogether.
Anyhoo, the place gradually became the agency’s "house" café. Apart from individual lunching, it hosted parties, Christmas lunches, leaving lunches and many other kind of lunches, although the liquid kind was favourite.
Now, a lot changes in 30 years. People move on, move away, go TT, go on diets and so on. But there was always a small group of us who, no matter what the circumstances, would continue lunching at the Hellenic.
I left AMV in ’92 and moved to Berkeley Square, but that is only a short cab ride away. I still went there whenever I could.
Many of the names I mentioned at the start of this piece also moved away – but they always came back. And so, the Usual Suspects were born.
None of us work at AMV any more, (not even Dave the Don, whose name is over the door.)
In truth, most of us aren’t even working any more, if we ever did.
But every two months or so, a postcard will arrive in the mail.
It contains no more information than this : The Usual Suspects, A Luncheon Club. A date. And The Venue : known to members.
You cannot join it, you have to be invited.
You cannot leave it of your own accord, rather like the Hotel California.
Guests are often invited to attend and they never decline.
God knows why.
Put a dozen or so admen together in a restaurant and you soon have 24 different conversations going on, at full volume and usually about esoteric nonsense which means nothing to the bewildered listener.
What is so funny about having written the worst tv ad for part-works ?
Or admitting to have been responsible for the most embarrassing poster for some long-gone client ?
I don’t know, Dear Reader, But it is. Possibly a tacit admission that what we do one day is simply the next day’s chip-paper ?
That in the end, it’s all meaningless, but very well-paid bollocks ?
Aye. Probably. But there is something else. A sense of belonging, which all of us yearn for, secretly or otherwise.
A very human urge for continuity of some kind. And a genuine pride in having been part of a place which, until recently was considered to be the finest ad agency in London.
At one point today, I felt obliged to apologise to an elderly couple who were seated just next to us, for the noise we were making.
(It’s my upbringing, I’m sorry.)
The lady smiled sweetly and said," Oh no, please do not concern yourself. It’s so nice to see young people enjoying themselves so happily."
Young people.
I look around the dining room and do a quick headcount. I see Dave the Don, Kiss of Death, Old Frank, Too-tall Stu, Mad John, The Welshman, Jezza, Marc the Wop, The Arg and myself.
I see them as they were, young people enchanted by a wonderful world where they were paid a lot of money to be witty and clever and insightful.
We weren’t always, of course, but we were often enough to earn our cash. I guess.
And then I see us as we are now; getting old and frail, hard of hearing, not in the best of health, eating little, drinking much less and never wanting to stay much after the 3.30pm race.
(A chap needs an afternoon nap, you know.)
And so I came home, courtesy of Kiss of Death, who now can drive to and from such gatherings in safety, as he no longer drinks.
I was exhausted by the day’s effort and went straight to bed, but I couldn’t sleep.
I kept thinking about all those young people.