It was just a straightforward dinner in the bosom of the House of Lords, talking to members of the Jockey Club. What could possibly go wrong?

When I rashly accepted with gay abandon the invitation to speak to them after dinner, I’d forgotten that I’d been quite punchy about the club over the past decade in the Daily Telegraph. Forgotten, that is, until I arrived at the Victoria Tower Gardens gate to the welcoming grunt of: ‘Well, you’ve been bloody rude about us in the past, so let’s see what you’ve got to say for yourself now.’

I could see one of the more senior members of the club was itching to give me a good whack with his walking stick. Fortunately I think they’ve tightened up the rules on how many times you can hit an insolent hack without giving him opportunity to respond, but I didn’t fancy finding out.

‘Must say hello to the Baroness,’ I gabbled, and hotfooted it to the bar. Not that I could drink. Now I don’t consider myself to be an alcoholic, but boy oh boy would a martini have slipped down nicely to settle the nerves. The trouble is one leads to two, and that’s an even number so you have to have three, and before you know it, things are getting out of hand. So I drank orange juice. Eugch. Terrible vintage.

The Baroness Harding of Winscombe is the top dog at the Jockey Club, and she is a determined lady. Think barnacle........

© The Spectator