Cary Grant’s Party

The evening began at a friend’s apartment in Redland, where we shared a couple of joints to get in the party mood. Then we went on a short but comprehensive pub crawl starting at the Royal Oak on The Mall. (When we first started frequenting the Oak in 1968 rough cider was 1s 6d a pint – that’s 7 1/2 pence in today’s money. We were indeed a lucky generation.) Because it was New Year’s Eve we wondered if for once the famously rude landlord of The Albion would be pleased to see us – he wasn’t! So after a few more stops we found ourselves outside the old Victorian warehouse near Temple Meads Station which was the Crystal Theatre’s headquarters, and our final destination. 

Predictably the party was full of people just as out of it as we were. It was on the third floor of the warehouse which was due for demolition.  At one time there had been a goods lift, now there was no longer any lift, just a cavernous hole in the corner of the room where the lift had been. Health and Safety hadn’t been invented yet and there was literally no barrier of any kind, nor any warning danger sign. Everyone just knew to avoid that potentially hazardous corner of the room. At one point I waddled over out of curiosity and peered down into the deep, seemingly bottomless black abyss. Mmmm. Even in my unsteady state I made a mental note to keep away.

I’m not sure how long we spent at the party. We managed to avoid the lift-shaft and we heard the bongs on a crackly long wave radio. Sensibly we realised we’d probably drunk enough beer for now so we switched to cheap white wine. We breathed our unsavoury, pond breath over several unfortunate young women and tried our best chat-up lines on one or two without any success whatsoever! 

There was me, Pete, John and Cary Grant! 

Bored with too many New Year’s Eves that turned out to be yet another crushing bore we decided we’d make an effort this year. We would go to a gentlemen’s formal wear establishment and rent ourselves some  classic white tie apparel, or penguin suits as they were commonly known. This proved to be a tad more problematic than we’d imagined. 

The classic white tie outfit consists of an unbuttoned single breasted tail coat with satin peak lapels, a white low-cut waistcoat, white trousers with braids down the outside leg, a white shirt with winged collar and studs, a white bow tie and patent or polished Oxford shoes. 

We’d left it rather late to visit Moss Bros, it being December 29th, nevertheless we managed to find everything to fit us for the extortionate fee of £10. Everything that is apart from one essential component which would prove to be our undoing –

they had no Oxford shoes to fit Pete’s size 12 feet. He was going to have to

make do with his usual footwear –

a pair of striking, bright red Doc Marten’s boots.

The long walk back to Clifton was literally uphill all the way. Halfway up we remembered that our friend Steve had mentioned that his mum was catering a party for Cary Grant at a house in Caledonia Place. Why not call in for one last (free) drink? Maybe there’d be food of some sort. 

Caledonia Place, Clifton – a grand Georgian house – a Hollywood star hosting a small genteel gathering of family and close friends.

Initially all had looked well as we sauntered in and tried to look as casual as possible. Cary was sitting on a plush sofa chatting with a few people. How nice it would have been to join Cary on the sofa! Surely he’d be captivated and entertained by our wit and repartee? One or two of the guests smiled hesitatingly at us and over the course of the next few minutes more glances were thrown in our direction and mutterings were heard. 

Someone walked over to Cary and whispered something in his ear. He looked over and made eye contact with us. We exchanged what we thought were knowing glances. Was it the sort of look we suave men of the world might exchange across a crowded room? No, it turned out it wasn’t. Though we were trying our damnedest to look sober, all three of us were swaying slightly as if on the deck of a ship. 

At last all eyes had turned in our direction and people began to back away, clutching their pearls and checking their wallets. The focus of attention had fallen on Pete, who at 6ft 5 always stood out in a crowd, let alone a small, confined drawing room.

We can try to imagine what passed through their minds. “Look at that tall fellow in the tail coat and winged collar – he’s trying his best to look the part. But something’s not quite right – too much Brill Cream for a start. And is that a roll-up he’s smoking? And those trousers are a bit too short, and……  My God! What is he wearing on his feet?” 

The game was up. 

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a small, elderly grey-haired lady can be far more intimidating than any large bemuscled bouncer. So it was that this particular small, elderly grey-haired old lady chucked us out. “Leave quietly and don’t come back,” she whispered menacingly, then marched us out and watched us stagger up the road into the bleak, misty dawn of January 1st 1977.