By George, we had fun!

Lord Savile (1918-2008): a personal tribute

“We’re going to have an evening of great wickedness!” George’s eyes sparkled with anticipation of the night that was to unfold.

By “great wickedness”, George did not mean that we were going to have a Sodom and Gomorrah experience but rather a jolly night out in London wining and dining.

George, The Frog Queen and I would meet up at some expensive restaurant and would indeed have an evening of great wickedness stuffing our faces with exquisite morsels of this and that, all washed down with some rather fine wines.

We took it in turns to treat each other. George, being so much richer than me, would invite us to some grand restaurant with stars; I’d reciprocate the next time at a restaurant in my price range. It all worked out wonderfully.

I mention this as a preamble because my friend, George Halifax Lumley-Savile, 3rd Baron of Rufford, died earlier this week. He was 89 years old.

How did I come to have a peer of the realm as a friend?

My father, a Yorkshireman and from a working class background (his dad was a miner), was very special in the brain department; he was borderline genius. He would never claim that himself but it was true.

At one stage, he was editor of The Yorkshire Post and we all lived in Leeds. Lord Savile, who lived nearby in the county, wrote to him, saying that he was a great admirer of his books and could they perhaps meet for lunch? They did and they quickly became firm friends.

Over the years, George would visit the family, even when we moved down south to Kent. I never really knew him in those early days as I wasn’t interested in what two old men were gabbing about.

My friendship with him started in tragic circumstances - my father died. Being a Yorkshireman through and through, my dad had stated he wanted to be buried in a little graveyard at Thornhill Parish Church, near Dewsbury, Yorkshire, next to his parents. The church, by chance, happens to be closely linked to the Savile family since the late l4th century.

It was July 1985 and I was working at The Daily Telegraph in London.

I had been working late the night before the funeral and rather foolishly I had not gone home but went to the International Press Club to play snooker and drink beer.

A friend of my older sister, Alistair, kindly said he’d give me a lift up to the church, a trip of roughly 200 miles. I felt a tad fragile.

We got there on time and the clan gathered for the modest funeral. Lord Savile graciously gave the address in church. I don’t remember much of it as the occasion got to us all.

I do recall George at one stage proclaiming that my father could be a difficult person at times. “He was a man who didn’t suffer fools gladly!” George proclaimed from the pulpit.

After the funeral we all trooped to The Savile Arms, a rather dingy little pub, where we’d arranged for a sort of wake; a sandwiches and beer affair.

As I walked into the pub, feeling decidedly jaded and in need of a drink or, better still, a lie-down, a woman, whom I’d never seen before but who later turned out to be a close relation, came up to me and, fixing me with that Yorkshire-no-nonsense look, exclaimed:

“You’re the spit! You look just like your father!”

“At this moment, I feel just like him too,” I replied.

Eventually, the small gathering dispersed and my family and partners (although my girlfriend wasn’t with me) adjourned to Gryce Hall, Lord Savile’s home.

We were shown our bedrooms, tea was served and later we all had dinner. My mother was understandably tired and went to bed early; the rest of us followed suit apart from my younger brother and myself.

We stayed up chatting to George and drinking gallons of his marvellous claret. It was at this moment that I got to know and like George (alcohol, the ice-breaker for reserved Englishmen!)

Well after midnight and well into our cups I suddenly had an urge to drink a cool beer.

“Come on, George, you must have some beer here.”

“The butler’s gorn to bed. He knows where it is. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, let’s try the wine cellars then,” I suggested.

“Yes, let’s!” he cried. “What an adventure!”

So three drunken men went down into the cavernous wine cellar in search of beer. There were racks and racks of cobwebby bottles of vintage this and that. But no beer.

Then George shouted “Eureka!” as he spotted a pack of lager carelessly left under a rack.

We returned to the drawing room with our “treasure” and had a few bottles of beer before staggering off to our beds.

It was the start of a fun and interesting friendship for me, a friendship not affected by age or class; he was in his late 60s, more than twice my age.

We would talk of many things: of sealing wax, cabbages and kings, and not just of shoes and ships. George was fascinated by one ship in particular: The Titanic. He knew everything there was to know about the ship, the disaster, the survivors, every last nut and bolt and rivet.

George liked to travel and regularly went to South Africa, America and France. All first class air travel, of course.

We dined lavishly together on various occasions in Paris. George always stayed at the Hotel Le Bristol and we would join him there for drinks and dinner. Or we would have drinks there and then go out to dinner.

George went everywhere in Paris by taxi or hired chauffeur. I once coaxed him into taking the métro. He was reluctant at first but afterwards said he had enjoyed the experience immensely and was really quite exhilarated. We walked on the wild side sometimes.

George spoke fluent French and explained to me that up until the age of seven he spoke almost exclusively French because his nanny was French and she was with him constantly.

The years went by and George, The Frog Queen and I met up regularly in restaurants and clubs in London.

Then, in 1992, I decided to leave the Daily Telegraph and chance my arm in Paris.

Before we left, George invited Her Royal Frogness and me to stay the weekend at Gryce Hall; he was holding a dinner party in our honour. It was to be a small gathering of about 12 people in total. Dinner jacket mandatory.

George had invited some close Yorkshire pals, all peers of the realm. I was his aide-de-camp for the evening dispensing pink Champagne as the guests arrived. It was all very Bridesheadian.

Lord Martin Fitzalan-Howard, who lived in nearby Carlton Towers, a spectacular Victorian Gothic country house, was one of the guests.

Another peer arrived triumphantly in an ancient yellow Rolls-Royce.

Pre-dinner, we quaffed the delicious Champagne and got to know each other. I was chatting with Lord Wotsit (I can’t recall his name or most of the others as my memory was dimmed by bubbly) and telling him I worked at The Daily Telegraph. His eyes gleamed when I said that and I thought “ah gawd, I bet he hates journalists, regarding us as reptiles as Prince Philip does”.

Lord Wotsit called the room to attention. All eyes were on the two of us.

“I say, you’ll never guess what – this chap’s got a job!”

Much hilarity ensued. I WORKED for a living. The very thought!

Of course, I was the only one in the room, apart from my wife, who hadn’t been born with a silver spoon (make that a ladle) in my mouth and who hadn’t inherited wealth beyond most people’s dreams.

So my having a job was actually a talking point and some good-humoured banter followed.

Then to dinner where more fine wines and food were served up. The cook and butler had hired some extra staff for the occasion.

Just before dinner finished the butler discreetly came up to me and The Frog Queen and asked what we would like to be awakened with in the morning.

“Tea or coffee?”

“Tea,” I replied.

“Indian or China?”

“Indian,” but decided against inquiring, “do you have PG Tips?"

The night flew by and then it was time for brandy and cigars. The ladies drifted out of the room, as is the custom, but The Frog Queen hadn’t realised that the men were to be left lone and she sauntered over to the drinks cabinet to get some water.

Lord Wotsit, standing next to me, watched as TFQ dawdled by the drinks cabinet. He could contain himself no longer and suddenly bellowed:

“I see an enemy in the camp!”

I hurriedly explained to Her Royal Frogness that she’d been given her marching orders.

The men then settled down with their brandies and Cuban cigars. The chat was man’s talk and amounted to nothing much but was enjoyable as the brandy mellowed the stomach and the mind.

Lord Wotsit declared: “I’m 75 but I feel as strong and virile as when I was 35!”

“So do I, Michael, so do I,” I said to him.

The night becomes a bit of a blur after that but I remember cheerily waving goodbye to Lord Wotsit as he drove his yellow Rolls Royce down the driveway and out into the night. Drink and drive? I don’t think that applies to blue bloods.

The next day I was surprisingly quite chipper and the hangover I thought I must inevitably have was very mild; a testament to good food and wine.

After sipping our cups of tea brought into our bedroom by the butler we showered and then went down for breakfast. There perfectly laid out on the sideboard was a silver-service breakfast with everything from bacon and eggs to kippers to porridge to kedgeree. Another feast. (The English are not waited on at breakfast, one serves oneself from the silver tureens and dishes). I salivate at the memory as I type this post.

George later proudly showed us his visitors’ book that displayed Princess Margaret’s huge signature scrawled across two pages. She had stayed a weekend with George when she was attending various functions in the neighbourhood. Gryce Hall had been a hive of activity that weekend as Princess Margaret always travelled with a huge entourage.

The weekend passed by all too quickly with a game of tennis, walks in the countryside (which George happened to own) with his dogs Brandy and Soda and afternoon scones and tea. And then we were travelling back to London on the InterCity.

We have had many evenings of great wickedness since although we have not met up for the past few years for geographical reasons and because of George’s increasing infirmity that he bore stoically.

But we kept in touch and I wrote him our news every Christmas; he would phone to wish me a Happy New Year. In fact, George phoned earlier this year for a chat.

George had a long and interesting life and will be much missed by many people.

I hope, dear George, that up there in heaven (he was a religious man) there are divine restaurants with angelic waiters and waitresses and the food tastes like ambrosia and the wine like nectar. Best not mention the great wickedness thing though.