High life
Good old days
Taki
Athens In the good old days, before the 1968 Gaming Act, the Clermont Club was home for me. The hall porter, an impeccably groomed white-haired gent, made sure that none of the rabble that eventually got the place into its present trouble would slip past his eagle eye. And then, of course, John Aspinall was there also. `Aspers' did and does measure a man by his courage to ISpectator 19 September 1981 .., plunge. In gambling parlance that means to punt wildly. When I first met him in the late Fifties he took to me instantly. We were playing poker in my father's flat in New 'York, and the first hand that he dealt gave me four aces. Needless to say I cleaned up. The game was supposed to last only an hour as my father would be coming home from the office at around six in the evening. (My mother, who is totally innocent, thought we were having a historical discussion.) But that first hand gave me ideas, and I pressed on rather recklessly.
Although still ahead after the hour was up I begged Aspers to stay. Leonida Goulandris and another player were losing, so everyone stayed. Just as my father arrived I managed to bluff Aspers with two sevens against his full house. Well, bluff is hardly the word: he didn't fall for it and I ended up losing all my winnings and a bit more. But Aspers was impressed. 'You mean he always plays like this?' he asked my friends afterwards. Then he kindly gave me his telephone number and address in London. When I managed to get away from my father, the possessive woman I eventually married, and the tennis circuit, I headed for good old England and my new-found admirer.
The Clermont had just opened and although there was a waiting list as long as the kind that would form, say, if those socialist democracies of the East would allow people to emigrate, I was welcomed with open arms by the club's benevolent proprietor. As I said before, in those good old days plungers were treated with respect.Aspinall had a soft spot for the people who punted not with their income, but their capital. The people who received most respect in those days were the Earl of Lucan, Charles Benson, yours truly, Lord Derby, the Duke of Devonshire, Bill Stirling and a gnome-like figure called Marcos Nomikos who spoke a language no one ever understood.
When the 1968 gaming law took effect Aspers stopped punting. Chemmy without Aspinall was like kissing one's sister. Even worse. People like Clement Freud were allowed in, and others even more horrible. When Aspers sold out in 1972 it was like coming home from the wars and finding another man in bed with one's wife. Some didn't mind that much. Benson, in fact, became as chummy with Victor Lownes as he ever was with Aspers. Lucan, needless to say, did not. In fact he took his dislike of the changing climate a bit too far. I was eventually banned for the remarks I made in person and in print concerning the calibre of person the Playboy Organisation was trying to attract. When Aspers opened his new club I began gambling again.
Did I see any breaking of the rules after Playboy took over? Until the Gaming Board pays my first class return fare to testify, my lips are sealed. I only hope they close the place down and let Freud go back to selling dog food.
Jeffrey Bernard is on holiday.
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