My favourite such anecdote concerns an occasion in The Other Cambridge, after a night of too much drink. A mob repaired to some greasy spoon or other — I forget the name of theplace — and were waiting patiently in line for a restorative breakfast. Just as we approached nirvana we heard One-Eyed Eddie, or his locum, sout downstairs to a hapless busboy: “Bring up more grease”.

We nearly did.

I once watched a friend flounce into the greasiest, most flyblown truck stop in upstate New York — we were on our way to ski in Vermont — and while the rest of us ordered our burgers and chili, he ordered a swordfish steak. I asked him later if it had been just memorably delicious, prepared with love by Chef Luanne (subbing that night for One-Eyed Eddie who’d called in drunk). “No,” was all he said.

Oh, I forgot to tell you to say hi to Jay for me. That is if you could find him. When last I saw him he was enjoying a knee-trembler in the back alley with a tragically drunk patroness of some girth.