Some thoughts on the Hogarth Club with occasional rhymes and sporadic rhythms.

By Anthony P Brooks

December 2017

Ah! Lads, we meet again in Hogarthian tradition

As we have each month for many moons

Until we reach perdition

The countless years combine to burnish

Our memories and try to furnish

The glories past with great perfection.

So, all us here shared some connection

With those halcyon days devoid of fault

When we, the chosen, sat all above the salt.

At Christmas here in Lott’s good care

At tables groaning under festive fare

Upon a stage that has seen us strut

Our stuff while holding in our elders gut.

Through footlights dim glow let’s summon a vision

And try to come up with a clear decision

Is the magic of Hogarth the room or the table,

Or the laughing response to each tale or fable?

Was it better then when youth made us able

Or now, when we can’t tell who’s Arthur or Mabel?

There! Can you see old Chesser street and that cellar door

That drew us in one time, then twice then many more

Through swinging door to gaslight glow

Past polished bar with a bottle to show

And salute our host, always quite formal

Whether Archer, Pam, Primo or Normal.

Then, pointing up, a little sign said this way is the Hogarth Room.

To some this meant salvation, to others it spelt doom.

Two steps a time we took the climb

By creaking stair to this redoubt, our lair

Its carpet stained with legend deep set in warp and weft

To be greeted by a sideboard looming on the left

Its mirrored magic magnified

The bottled wines we each supplied

Opened, poured, sniffed, sipped and matched

By Lloyd who always claimed this job.

The best he kept, the rest dispatched

To us the grateful but untutored mob.

Stretching long before us in solid English oak

A table for a trencherman, a statesman or rich folk

Seating eighteen, all debating and as each around it spoke

Each point was smithed through tears and fears

Upon this anvil of concepts and ideas

Until a constitutions clause bespoke

Was hammered out through this forges scented smoke.

Blushed pink Manoahs dawn was near

When old Josh Symonds sternly said

“Many men who should be here

Will sore regret they stayed in bed.”

Oft times this respected legend was deferred

While jokes of doubtfull taste were heard,

And outraged James Vincent Seaton Bowen

Said,”If the culprit ever should be known

He’d be hung, drawn and quartered at least

Then spit roasted for a feast

Whoever he was that danced upon this table.”

Yet still alive the miscreant can validate this fable.

Around the walls in tragic, awful scenes

The curse of gin, over imbibed, demeans

The gentle cup of vinous mirth

Sipped with friends beside the hearth

Each sketch a slander to wine or worse

By poisoned pen and signed Hogarth.

These stories are a multitude

Some high minded, some are rude

They would fill too many pages

And retelling would take ages.

So what then is the magic that makes the Hogarth Club

As we meet on Leo’s summons from his archival hub?

I know it’s not the same as that original great game

When the Chesser in its pomp was, sine qua non, the place.

It drew the great and good with cold carvery and pud

And Chessers One to Three, house cocktails set the pace.

But it’s not even the stories that make the club

Not the furniture nor location, that's the rub.

Not these Rules that set the quality at hand

Cold soup for Satchell, no fungus to touch a Bannon tongue

No brandy for Wayne and the pudding must be sung

And Pegge is justifiably and permanently banned.

At Christmas spotting his red herring

Ignoring his last impassioned croak

Shortly, RIP, shall be stopped from telling

The White Gorilla Joke.

No chap to leave unless requested by vote to do so

Women forbidden but bumpy chaps accepted, don't you know.

And behaviour was not always A-class as these examples display

It was quite rude but we complained about the food

And said things very stinging about others singing

To carp and question the price was never very nice

And the quality of guests failed several of the tests

So to quibble about ambience was far beyond the pale or fence.

It was none of these, the answer that we seek to find

It is right here at the front not lost so far behind?

Of course It's the members, Ah! The members

Trying still to fan the embers

Of lives whose fire is waning and given to complaining

With jokes retold in clarity and unexplained hilarity.

It's the members and their madness

As an antidote to sadness

That keeps it all as we supposed

And our memories cleaned and gently hosed.

We should celebrate the now and take good notice

All us eaters of the lotus

Of this prophetic little plaque and all together say

As a mark of respect

The Cellars are closed today.

Post Script:

Hogarthians, we have gathered once again

And tried to remember just who or what or when

It was that we first met and yet

The comfort of the familiar and shared history let

The bonds renew of friendships tie

I tell you true without a lie

In such good company one happily could die.