^{The above illustration and those in the remainder of this report
are taken from the menu at the 1998 Birthday Dinner.}

The Inner Temple is not some Holy of Holies but one of several large buildings inside that complex of squares, gardens and chambers devoted to legal affairs between Fleet Street and the Thames. Not far away must have been the office of Lord Tilbury (see the second sentence of Heavy Weather). A quarter of a mile to the north-west was Psmith's "quite snug little flat in Clement's Inn" where he accommodated Mike Jackson for the duration of Psmith in the City (see chapter 7). And on the night of 15th October, 1998 the Inner Temple rang to the laughter and happiness of those who loved those characters and honoured Wodehouse their begetter.

Jurists from the centuries looked down from their portraits in the hallowed Parliament Chamber of the Inner Temple as society celebrated The Master's birthday - and it surely was not too fanciful to imagine an approving twinkle in the eye of stern judges and their ilk as the revelry developed. Even the Right Honourable William Pitt, Prime Minister of a deprived (i.e. pre- Wodehouse) world, looked a more kindly and human character as the Wodehouseans, assembled from home and across the seas, acclaimed their hero.

The invitations said "7 for 7.30" for a privileged 90 (what weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth there must have been among those tardy applicants who could be there in no better than spirit). The eager were there well before 7, approving of the gin and tonic (well, champagne, it seemed mostly), although Mr Mulliner might have been saddened to note little demand for port and lemon, small bitter, pint of stout, or even whisky sour.......

Among those present were His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent; three Wodehouses: Patrick, PG's only surviving nephew, Charles, and his wife Joyce. Charles's grandfather was PG's Uncle Fred, but (he said with some regret) he was not at all like the Uncle Fred that PG created. From the USA we were delighted to greet Dan and Tina Garrison, Phil Ayers, and Marilyn MacGregor.

Seated in the panelled dining chamber, we were properly set on our way with grace given by the Chairman, Lieutenant-Colonel Norman T.P. Murphy, heard with some satisfaction by those knowing Latin, with some bafflement by those not knowing it - and with smug approval by those who had been quick enough to open their special programmes and read: "Grace has been specially written for the use of the Society by Paul W. de Voil, MA (Oxon), FTH., solicitor - complete with English translation". Our Chairman seemed to speak slightly more slowly than usual, to allow those whose Latin had rusted to keep up. His Latin accent was curious, but that he explained later as being in the speech of the 2nd Division of Legionnaries, the Garter regiment, in northern Gaul in the late second century.

When Sir Edward Cazalet came to propose the toast of HM Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother he gave us her letter of reluctant refusal: her "ipsissima verba" (this was less authentic 2nd century Latin than 20th century legalese Latin, in the spirit of the place (genius loci?) and in deference to the lawyers present).

Our President, Richard Briers OBE, introduced Sir John Mortimer QC, commenting; "I seem to be the only paid-up luvvie present" (which perhaps indicated this was no gathering of the EC4 branch of New Labour?). He apologised for the absence of the Hon. Galahad Threepwood, who in a warm message beginning "Dear Eggs, Beans & Crumpets" explained that he had deputed "Tricky Dicky" Briers to read some of his recollections, "and I hope he doesn't make a hash of it". He didn't.

"I first met Parsloe at Romano's while he was walking round the supper table with a soup tureen on his head and a stick of celery in his hand, saying he was a sentry outside Buckingham Palace. And the name Parsloe goes by now! Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe Bart! It reminds me of a story about Jack Bellamy- Johnstone. He fell in love with a girl called Esmeralda Parkinson-Willoughby and had the whole thing tattooed on his chest with a heart round it. The wounds had barely started to heal when they had a row and within three months he was engaged to May Todd.

At least even Parsloe didn't try to follow in poor Buffy Struggles' footsteps and become teetotal. Old Buffy came to me one day and asked where he could buy tea. "What d'you want tea for?" I asked. "To drink" he said. "You don't drink tea" I reminded him, "you drink whisk-and-soda." "No more alcohol for me," said Buffy. "Look what it does to the common earthworm." "But you're not a common earthworm" I said, putting my finger on the flaw in his argument. "I will be if I go on drinking whisk-and-soda," he said. I begged him not to do anything rash, but he would insist. He ordered in ten pounds of the muck and was dead within the year. Dead as a doornail. Drinking tea had dulled his reactions and he was run over by a hansom cab while crossing Piccadilly."

We laughed - loud and long. There is something so special about PGW that, even if you know a passage practically by heart, as many of the buffs do, then you still can delight, to the point of wallowing, in the words, the timing, the pictures conjured up as you hear it yet again - especially if they come in the tones of so splendid an interpreter.

Then Sir John Mortimer proposed the toast of the Society. He said there was no microphone and he would apply the Rumpole Audibility Test. Rumpole took a young barrister into court for a case one day and said aside to his junior "You must know that the judge in this case is boring, foolish, incompetent, vindictive, petty, and hopeless." The young barrister was startled to hear the Judge in question boom back across the court "The acoustics in this building are excellent and I heard every word of that." At which Rumpole turned to the young barrister and simply said "See what I mean?"

The deafening laughter established that he had no need of a microphone.

Sir John Mortimer then invited us into his own world of Wodehouse fantasy, explaining how as he lay in bed that morning his man, Cazalet (the name received with much approval) had explained he was to attend the dinner of the Wodehouse Society - "Mr Little attended last year, when his rendition of Sonny Boy was not appreciated".

Cazalet, in best Jeeves fashion, told his master that he had laid out a black tie. "Why", Mortimer said, hope beginning to dawn, "is Aunt Agatha dead?"

(He explained in an aside to his listeners how he had "fallen among booksellers". He had been launching a new book in Leeds and raced back. Booksellers' idea of wearing black was "black tracksuit trousers and trainers".)

"No, sir", his man replied, "but for a formal occasion such as this dinner a black tie would be of the essence." "But I can't", I protested. "Where shall I change?" How would he dress, he protested to Cazalet, as he made his way from Leeds to London?

"I can only suggest, sir, that you make full use of the Disabled Toilet in the Milton Keynes Service Area."

"Which is what I did" Sir John said (bringing what might be described as gales of laughter). I hope I was at any rate better prepared than the Judge who came to court after a long case to deliver judgment, and announced that he had spent three months assessing the evidence, he had weighed it all carefully, summed it up, made important and critical decisions on various matters, and resolved all the points at issue in the case; but unfortunately he had left all the papers concerned in his cottage in the country. "Well", said the Clerk of the Court, "fax it up, my lord". "Yes" agreed the Judge. "It does rather."

You can rehearse too much (Sir John continued). He remembered the timid actor playing King Duncan in Macbeth. His first line in the play is "What bloody man is this?" which he refused at first to say. "How can I say this? How can I start by swearing?" he argued. But his Director persuaded him that it wasn't swearing; more a physical description of the man in front of him, and suggested he try different ways of saying it. So the actor said "What bloody man is this?" in as many different ways as he could think of. But he still believed it was swearing, and when the first night came, he walked straight on to the stage and said "Who is this bugger?"

Sir John Mortimer looked at the task of writing humour, arguing: "Anyone on a wet Tuesday afternoon can write a tragedy; it's easy to write about troubled adolescence in distant Australia, or broken marriages in Islington. To write great comedy is difficult.

"As I found working with Dicky Briers, you have to take comedy terribly seriously. The great gift of Plum was to depict ordinary people, and get them intro extraordinary situations. Here was a writer who was highly educated, who could write a joke in the style of Euripides or Shakespeare, and you get from him an insight into the whole of our cultures."

And Sir John paid tribute to the nobility of character of a man who was ferociously attacked by William Connor (Cassandra in the Daily Mirror), and called a traitor - and who in time became great friends with his accuser, "a most wonderful tribute to PGW the man".

Then it was time for cabaret - and offered for our delectation was the incomparable pairing of Hal and Lara Cazalet, with Lucy Tregear most welcome as a substitute for Maria Friedman, and Madeleine Mattar as the brilliant accompaniste. They sang five numbers; it was a shock as Hal and Lara offered "Till the Clouds Roll By", when the Parliament Room clock chimed 10 - we had been there 2 1/2 hours, and it seemed like ten minutes.

Lucy livened the night with a fullblooded version of "Cleo-patter-er" which had the more nervous gentlemen draw back in their chairs as she shimmered and slithered among the tables while the braver kissed her passing hand - a performance of splendid verve and brio. Like Hal and Lara, she was as superb an actress as a singer.

Lara must have sung "Bill" dozens, hundreds of times - but she sang for us with a delicious mix of warmth and humour that reminded you just why this is the best known of all Plum's lyrics.

And finally, Hal gave us Sonny Boy - and how! Every drop of pathos was distilled into his rendition, and handkerchiefs should have been handed out to control the racked emotions - punctuated by bursts of laughter as he reached varying pitches of intensity.

Never did the costermongers of Bottleton East thunder their applause as did the Wodehouse Society and its guests, and Hal gave us the encore we demanded, bringing more plaster from the ceiling, tears to the eyes, and laughter to the throats.

- Murray Hedgcock and John Fletcher