We didn't have pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. That's how we roll

For a man of my years, I’ve had a busy couple of weeks of it. It started with a “Saints and Sinners Club” lunch at Lord’s. The Saints and Sinners are a gathering of geezers who fancy themselves “raffish”, who meet once a month for lunch, for no good reason other than good fellowship, a bite of food and a mouthful of wine, to tell each other a few stories and raise a few bob for worthy charities.

There are no rules that I’ve ever discovered (and I’ve been chairman), there are only 100 of us, and if guests want to come to our annual Christmas lunch, they have to pay for it by listening to us sing carols at them.

At Lord’s, we had a question-and-answer session with distinguished figures from the world of sport, and a helping of meat so large that there was unworthy speculation that it might be cheval rather than “boeuf bourguignon”.

Then, on Shrove Tuesday, another lunch at Simpson’s, the roast beef Mecca on the Strand. Although the founder of this feast has a fondness for the school dinners of his youth, he settled for gastronomic safety with chicken. The excuse this time was the Oldie of the Year Awards. Unlike the Baftas, Golden Globes or Oscars, and all of the other self-congratulatory showbiz fandangos, these prizewinners are not picked by retired wardrobe mistresses, make-up ladies or former best-boys, but judges of intellect and discernment, and me, whose discussions can often degenerate into bitter wrangling. Despite recriminations, decisions were taken, and, as readers of a better class of newspaper, you will be aware, among the great and good honoured, the main Golden Oldie award garlanded the leonine brow of Lord Heseltine.

It was a close-run thing; the “Turbaned Tornado”, Fauja Singh, was in the running, in more ways than one, having completed the Toronto marathon last October, at 100 years of age. Next Sunday he’ll hang up his running shoes at the finish of the Hong Kong marathon. He doesn’t drink and he’s a vegetarian, with a beard to put George Clooney to shame.

Then, the charming Samantha Cameron invited to No 10 a group representing charities that had attended the City firm Icap’s Big Day a little while ago, allowing us to imagine we were dealing in millions, while brokers, managers and secretaries all dressed up like cowboys and Indians, soldiers, sailors, doctors and nurses, sheikhs and snorklers. A good-hearted, jolly day, that belied the reputation of a self-centred City.

A reputation further demolished by the PM’s wife’s reception, when those of us representing charities, mine being Children in Need, received handsome donations from Icap’s Michael Spencer.

Not a bad few days. Somewhere in the middle, I’ll swear I saw a pancake and a Valentine’s Day card, but it’s all over now, for it’s Lent. I’m not telling you what I’m giving up, but I’ll have a couple on Patrick’s Day…

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