ROGUES GALLERY UNCOVERED
AMENDED TRANSCRIPT
I LIKE BEER
A SPECTACULAR NIGHT ON THE LASH WITH VICTORIAN LONDON’S MOST ENTHUSIASTIC PARTY ANIMAL.
Henry Weysford Charles Plantagenet Rawdon-Hastings, 4th Marquess of Hastings
London 1866
Do not speak above a whisper or move around too vigorously or I shall surely void my bodily wastes upon the heart rug.
I have a hangover sir – a turmoil of the mind and body of such spectacular proportions that I vow from this day forward to never again touch intoxicating liquor.
A pig has defecated in my head sir and I only intended to partake of a few ales.
It’s all the fault of Henry Weysford Charles Plantagenet Rawdon-Hastings, 4th Marquess of Hastings, An imbiber of legendarily prodigious appetites even though he is but 24 years of age, whose reputation as a genial man of sport is the talk of London.
He would, I’m sure have been more at home in the lusty days of the Regency than the present sober and virtuous age..
My bowels certainly wish he had been born thirty years earlier.
By Christ the man can drink.
I arrived for dinner at eight, Hastings was not yet dressed as he had been out on a debauch the night before and had medicated himself by enjoying a late breakfast of mackerel fried in gin and some caviar on toast.
Joining us for the evening’s explorations were the prime minister of Bavaria, a trio of young German nobles and a couple of highly placed metropolitan police detectives – invited Hastings said in case we got into any trouble with the law later on.
I was told to make sure that I had the odd sovereign or two pocketed about my person as – knowing the places we were going to frequent – Hastings was certain than I would have greedy fingers in every fold of my clothing before the night was out, and it was better to let the knaves have a coin for their trouble rather than give them nothing and perhaps get a beating later.
He told me that whenever he dances with a young beauty, he often feels their hands all over him in a featherlight quest for silver. “Go it” he will cry “I’m not a bit ticklish”
He cares not about the loss as he is well able to afford it and his generosity when in his cups is a thing of legend.
If he’s not careful he will have exhausted his family fortune before the decade is out.
We began our evening at a rat baiting pit in Endel street, Hastings had a bet running with some fellow called Hamilton and was in a state of high excitement.
Upon walking down, the stairs, he loudly ordered six cases of champagne, enough for everyone and a great cheer rose up – this was apparently not an uncommon occurrence.
The noise of the pit was like the screaming of the dammed and the hot press of the crowd, the thick smoke, and the smell of blood, animals, stale beer and unwashed men all combined to make my head spin.
But as the starved terriers tore into the savage rodents in the sawdust below, a bottle or two of Hastings champagne soon saw me screaming into the carnage like a regular gamesman.
Did Hastings win his wager? I cannot recall but I could not wash the blood from my cuffs I know that much.
Then we hailed a hansom and made out way to Leicester Square for an hour or two in the Café Royal or as it’s known by all around town… “Kates.”
This is in honour of its proprietor the celebrated Kate Hamilton.
She had been quite a beauty in her youth but decades of dissipation has wreaked havoc on her physique and she now weighs upwards of twenty stone.
I saw her as we entered the salon - her decolletage balancing precariously upon a frighteningly low-cut bodice - laughing with some well-heeled young gentlemen.
Hamilton said she was “shaking like a giant blancmange” which I though was a little churlish.
Kates is one of London’s most famous houses of disrepute which only caters to the most select clientele – Royalty, the wealthy, the noble, the clergy, government minsters - that sort of thing.
The prices for food and drink are outrageous – champagne and Moselle, 12 shillings a bottle…a bottle.
The price of a woman was even greater – only the most high-class courtesans plied their trade on Kates dancefloor.
Hastings told me that if a man was not prepared to spend at least five or six pounds there in an evening he was not allowed through the door.
I saw Kate sitting on a raised platform looking down on the revels below, her loud voice cutting through the music and the din calling out greetings and cackles of encouragement.
The trouble with being so well known is that an establishment like Kates becomes a regular target for police raids.
I found this out as I got up to visit the privy.
A great hue and cry suddenly erupted as the call went up “It’s the Traps” and the place became a picture of well-practiced movement.
To get into Kates you have to make your way down a long, covered passage – this keeps trouble makers and undesirables well away from the door but also gives servants plenty of time to warn the management of any virtuous peelers heading their way.
At the warning shout, the music stopped, carpets were rolled up and floor boards raised.
Everyone in the place then threw their glasses – empty and full into the spaces beneath, along with all the bottles from which they had been drinking.
Patrons who had moments before been lustily laughing and swapping off colour stories – Hastings knew an unending supply – suddenly began sitting as demurely as church mice and conversing in hushed and reverential tones.
When a red faced, scowling police inspector and his grinning squad of constables strode in, the room was as respectable as Queen Victoria’s parlour.
Nods were exchanged between the inspector and the detectives at our table before a cursory inspection was conducted and the police made their exit.
I suspect some arrangement exists between the Kate and the officers of the law to ensure that such visits fail to result in any kind of prosecution or damage to her reputation.
The raid however put Hastings in an ill humour so while the rest of the clientele rummaged around beneath the floorboards to retrieve their drinks we made our own exit.. “Time for Mots” I heard Hastings say.
By this time, I could barely string two words together, my breeches were soiled and I had been sick into my hat, but Hastings said the night was young.
“Mots” is the nom de plume of The Portland Rooms, another savanna where wealthy older gentleman are stalked by accomplished paramours.
The majority of these women however were not common dabs, most were actresses or young ladies of refinement who hoped to secure a future under the protection of a generous benefactor before their looks faded.
The men who frequent Mots are from the highest strata of society.
Only those known to the management by name are allowed entry and once accepted it matters not how debauched a fellow’s reputation but that he would be welcomed there.
Hastings was, of course, known by everyone so we had little difficulty getting through the door.
There is however a strict policy of not allowing admission to any man who is not wearing evening dress and as my coat was stained from rat blood, spilled champagne and “other fluids” I had taken to holding it draped it over my shoulder.
Despite my strongest protestations I was compelled to don it once more before I was allowed to follow my companions into the glittering interior.
Even in my inebriated state I was dazzled by the beauties moving like ships at sail all around me – although sadly not towards me.
There was Catherine Walters more popularly known as “Skittles” a stunning beaty and skilled horsewoman.
I have often been strolling through Hyde Park when her appearance - steering her carriage along rotten Row - has caused a crowd to gather and gasps of admiration to be heard above the sound of hoofbeats.
She has counted Napoleon III and our own Prince Edward among her lovers, Hastings said that she could ride him to Penzance and back whenever she liked which made us all roar with laughter.
I also saw Nelly Fowler - a great beauty famous for her intoxicating smell.
Such is the sweetness of her feminine scent that many a love starved young man has paid handsomely for Nelly to sleep with his handkerchief pressed beneath her pillow so it would be impregnated with her aroma.
Hastings – who was on top form – said that you could smell Nelly in half the drawing rooms of London and never find her in any of them.
At about three in the morning – Mots does not even begin to come alive until midnight – I noticed through clouded vision, Hastings furtively slipping outside, only to return a few minutes later carrying a large wriggling sack.
Among his many eccentricities Hastings is renowned as a practical joker and I swear it is only his unsurpassed charm and generosity that prevents him being called out or sent to prison.
At a signal from Hastings some accomplice in his employ turned off the gas to all the lamps illuminating the room - plunging it into complete darkness.
As the shrieks, crashes and shouted oaths reached a crescendo he then upended the sack which contained – he says – two hundred rats – Presumably left over from the Endel street pit.
Among the cramped confines of the pitch-black room, the panic caused by the rats as they ran amok up trouser leg and petticoat had to be seen – or not seen - to be believed.
Through it all Hastings bellowed with laughter holding his sides, his eyes streaming with tears.
His work complete, Hastings made for the door only to be stopped by Old Freer the head doorman who is held with respect and not a little fear by the patrons.
I thought he would attack us with a cudgel as we stood before him, the sounds of the carnage we - well Hastings – had created, echoing behind us.
I don’t know if it was the presence of two detectives or Hastings’s reputation that placated this most savage of beasts but he respectfully took Hastings to one side and as a young woman ran screaming past us pursued by three malodorous rodents said simply “Really my lord these practical jokes cannot be permitted”
I thought after that our night was complete and it was time to retire to the warmth and safety of a nice bed – perhaps in a hospital or specialist clinic.
Our German companions were starting to look a little green around their Teutonic gills and the two policemen had wet themselves and were brawling in the street.
Hastings however had other ideas and before the sun came up, we found ourselves down by the docks along the Ratcliffe Highway – an area notorious for violent crime where even the most steadfast of men think twice before attempting to walk its length.
On Ratcliffe Highway Drunken sailors armed with long knives staggered from gin shop to gin shop, while unsavoury criminals eyed us with greed and malice from beneath their hats.
Tuppenny tarts loudly – and vigorously - entertained their customers up against walls in every alley and doorway we passed while all around fishwives and drunks filled the air with a concerto of abuse.
Hastings suggested we put our heads round the door of an Opium den – of which there seemed to be many - and a greater tableau of human misery I can scarcely imagine.
Row upon row of men and women slumped insensible in dimly lit rooms, the air sweet with the stench of the opium to which they had surrendered their consciousness.
One of our number took a draw on a Chinaman’s pipe as he walked past and we were chased down the street by a group of them brandishing some vicious kind of hatchet before the detectives in our party came to our rescue.
We then had to carry the fellow who had been the cause of our near fatal chopping all the way to the Jolly Sailor in Ship Alley because as the Opium fiends turned tail his eyes rolled back in to his head and he promptly fell into a swoon.
The detectives proved to be our savours yet again as we walked in to this den of thieves and gutter scum “Its all-right lads,” they shouted “only some gents to stand you a drink.”
The chap on the door however tried his damndest to dissuade from entering.
“Keep your money Sargent we’ve got a mangy lot here tonight they won’t cotton to the gents.
If they ask one of their women to dance it will be taken as an affront, and if they don’t ask them, it will be taken as an affront. Leave well alone say I. Most nights it might do but not tonight.
The drinks got hold of most of them and these a lot of scurvy Greeks about who will whip out their knives before you can say what’s what. “
He suggested we might have a better time at The King of Prussia, The Prince Regent, The Old Mahogany Bar or The Blue Anchor.
Hastings though pushed his way in regardless and ordered a round of drinks for everyone.
For a while all seemed well.
Around us couples danced – or staggered – to the sound of a fiddle being played with alarming vigour by an old man in the corner.
Other couples too drunk to even move, were slumped against the wall fondling each other while slurring incompressible words, the spittle dribbling from their mouths.
Groups of men sat around rough wooden tables swigging back chipped tankards of gut rot spirits or vinegar like ale – shouting blasphemes to anyone who would listen and occasionally coming to blows.
I by then could hardly tell my arse from a hole in the ground but even my addled brain could sense the animosity that began to emanate from some of the taverns patrons when they became aware of our presence.
A sailor leaned across his companion and shouted,
“ avnt you got a leg o mutton and current dumplings at ome wi out coming here ?”
One of his friends drew a knife and suggested sticking us “just for sport”
The group surrounded our table, I tried vainly to stand up and make my way to the door but my legs would not support my weight and I fell forward over the table, my elbows in a pool of slops murmuring feebly for mercy.
At once a giant of a Scandinavian commanded the groups attention “ Bide a while lads “ he says “ “lets make them show their colours”
Mine were yellow and green with a hint of brown but Hastings seemed unfazed.
“What cheer there?” the giant says to him to which Hastings replied with the broadest of smiles “what cheer my hearties?”
This exchange of plain honest banter had a remarkable effect and the group who only five minutes before seemed set upon murdering us quickly became our dearest friends and we spent from then till seven in the morning sitting together talking about I know not what.
We left at seven thirty, most of our fellow drinkers lying insensible on the floor.
As the cab took me to my lodgings and I began to feel the first stirrings of the wretchedness which now consumes me, Hastings was taking about tucking in to some more gin fried mackerel.
“Would you like to come out with us again?” he asked
We could go a “Finish” after the taverns have closed and watch the old toffs get drunk and try and couple with girls - they often don’t even bother finding a room but just go to it on the sofas in full view of everyone.
When they finally pass out, we can pour our beer all over them and lave the old soaks sodden in a puddle of their own filth.
I think I muttered something like it sounded most entertaining and we must make arrangements.
“Excellent” said Hastings “ill come for you at seven this evening”.
It is already gone five.
I’ll need a pot of string coffee, a bread poultice and some clean and sturdy trousers.
God save the Queen.
Henry Weysford Charles Plantagenet Rawdon-Hastings, 4th Marquess of Hastings,
