I can tell you exactly where I was at ten o’clock in the evening on 17th February 1986: in a small downstairs room in a rented cottage in Suffolk which was built into the walls of the vegetable and fruit garden
“It’s the thing for the kids to wear!” he mutters later during dinner at the legendary Scott’s, where Ian Fleming discovered the joys of the shaken-not-stirred dry martini. Haslam’s gimlet arrives. Oh dear, there’s no ice. He snaps his fingers at the waiter in a state of ...