By Murray Hedgcock

Crocker's Folly, forsooth! Let us have no more of this loose talk about the visionary Victorian entrepreneur who in 1898 built his splendid hotel at Maida Vale, in the understanding that Marylebone Station was to be erected across the way - and then, according to misted legend, hurled himself to the ground from the top floor of his remarkable edifice when the station popped up a mile away.

Frank Crocker knew what he was doing. He understood that, on the night of July 19, 2000, his eclectic edifice would be precisely what was required to celebrate the In Search of Blandings Tour, with an evening of gaiety exactly suited to his vision, and his lavish hotel.

So it was a rare moment of solemnity in the evening of frolicsome fun when Colonel Norman Murphy, president of The P G Wodehouse Society (UK), reminded us of the imagination of this splendid man, building his long-scorned hostelry with every possible bit of decorative superstructure and trimming he could find - only to be mocked by the world.

We may indeed have come to mock - but we stayed to cheer, fifty Plummies from PGW societies around the world, as the setting proved exactly what a Wodehouse evening needed.

True, the service was somewhat leisured to begin with: presumably the Crocker's staff were dismayed at the sight of so much exotic Plum-buff in the flesh. But they soon got the hang of it, and there was so much talking to be done, and such a packed program of entertainment to relish, that a trifle like slowish food didn't matter all that much.

Norman Murphy, whose talents expand by the year, followed the readings by various Plummies of Wodehouse verse snippets, with his distinctive - one might almost say, idiosyncratic - version of "Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner". Our American guests perhaps sang the required choruses with most feeling, but then we genuine Londoners are a mite shy about showing our emotions about our city.

We also had snatches of PGW dialogue read by the various tables through the evening. Much fun - but it would be a kindness to recommend that most of those taking part should stay with the day job ...

The professional quality part of the festivities came from that well-loved brother and sister act, Hal and Lara Cazalet, whose presence, and contribution, is a required element of such UK Wodehouse celebrations. They began with their duet, "Till the Clouds Roll By", a lovely melody with true PGW lyrics, and their voices blended in delightful harmony.

The Loyal Toast, proposed by the chairman, Tony Ring (whose dynamically deft handling of the evening suggested he could make a pretty penny on the music halls if ever he chose to drop out of his normal taxing duties) was followed by another toast traditional to our society - to our most splendid member, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother.

This was proposed by Sir Edward Cazalet, who admitted he had such tears in his eyes as he rode in Her Majesty's birthday pageant the previous day, that he could barely see a thing: it was a matter of feeling unashamedly emotional about a day recalling Britain's yesterday, and that of a gracious lady.

Elin Woodger, TWS President, proposed an all-embracing toast to the world of Wodehouse - the man, the master writer, and the oeuvre he had spawned so lavishly and rewardingly. We drank to that with unstinted pleasure and approval.

Who, we wondered, might be Emily Fletcher, billed on the excellent souvenir programme as "A Special Guest"? Ms Fletcher was indeed special: she was introduced by Sir Edward as a friend of his family - which was a good start - but also, as the granddaughter of Irving Berlin. She reminded us that Plum and Irving B had hoped to collaborate on "Sitting Pretty": sadly, it did not eventuate, but Ms Fletcher's memories of the pair, helped by reading an appropriate selection from the Wodehouse letters, provided a tasty extra dimension to the evening.

More from the talented Cazalets led to the broadcast of a song by the American soprano, Sylvia McNair, from an as yet uncompleted CD on which she sings some duets with Hal Cazalet: we heard more of this during the evening, and it was marvellous stuff. Lorna Dallas also came to us courtesy of CD, singing "London, Dear Old London", from the disc, The Girl I Knew - another reminder of the quality of the Wodehouse musical comedy contribution, all too easily overlooked in understandable enthusiasm for his books and short stories.

Neil Midkiff, who in addition to knowing lots about computers, can tickle the old-fashioned piano to great effect, repeated by special request his "Animal Love Song - Good Gnus", which uses Wodehousean lyrics, of a bloodthirsty nature, adapted to a group of stand-out melodies. It has to be heard to be believed.

Elin Woodger provided another reminder of American talent with her Cautionary Tale From the White House - the story of Prinderella and her Since. Owing most to the legendary Dr Spooner, with strong overtones of Professor Stanley Unwin, this was a tour de force of lip-quivering dexterity, followed by a Wodehousean essay based on the same principles. Sadly your correspondent's shaky shorthand gave up in the first line of the presentation, and he caught up only with Elin's oft-repeated refrain mourning Boor Prinders' problems - it was all "A shirty dame". (Click here for a transcript.)

Sven Sahlin brought a touch of real-life romance with his melancholy epic, "La Belle Dame Sans Merci", recording his willingness to walk endlessly in romantic mood alongside his wife Britte - until he discovered she was training for the annual walk to Brighton.

The song highlights at such occasions of course are the Hal Cazalet rendition of "Sonny Boy", an emotional experience to leave you sobbing into your table napkin - and Lara's tender "Bill", which could bring a genuine tear to the eye because of its soft warmth.

Presentations to all the splendid people who had been prime activists in ensuring the success not just of the evening, but also the whole week, were loudly applauded - and then most of the recipients quite undid the good work by presenting themselves, with all the other officials, as a chorus line to sing "The Lambeth Walk".

The singing was, well, passable - but the chaotic choreography suggested they had overlooked the need for a stiff month working out with Hermes Pan or Bob Fosse. Or perhaps Diaghilev.

No matter: we ordinary folk all sang "The Lambeth Walk" ourselves, and made a much better fist of it - not least such as your correspondent, whose family once lived just off the Old Kent Road (and if that doesn't qualify one to sing "The Lambeth Walk", then what does?).

It was one of those memorable evenings when no one wants to be the first to leave: even those knowing they had to be up in a few hours for the travelling leg of the Blandings tour, were understandably slow to move. Crocker's Folly is no more: from henceforth, it must surely be Crocker's Pride, home to the world of Wodehouse.