The Colony Room

I was first carried into the Colony in a carrycot and dumped on the banquet, under the large and well-worn Michael Andrews painting which is a copy of a Bonnard. Later on in my life, I would sleep there often, sometimes all afternoon and even a few nights. I must have been less than one, but by then a regular. I was later told that Muriel Belcher would put vodka on her thumb and shove it in my mouth when I was teething, but I don’t remember that. I was seduced, and doomed from then on.

When I was about four years old, I moved to Newcastle in the North of England and couldn’t visit as much as I would have liked. But in the holidays we went to see a film in the West End, because apparently there were no other cinemas in London (although the Chelsea Cinema on Kings Road was about five minutes’ walk, and Fulham Road Cinema was a five minute bus or taxi ride away). I suspect my father found it very stressful dealing with us in the holidays, but we always ended up at the Colony before and after the film, or even on a few occasions a play; we could nip in there at the interval. The one I remember the most was Dad’s Army, because we met John Le Mesurier (Sergeant Wilson), who I think was another regular at the Colony. The Colony by then was Heaven, as every time we went we were given as much Coca-Cola as we wanted, which was not normally allowed, and Muriel would tell Ian Board to open the till and give us two pounds so we could go to the amusement arcade around the corner. This was a lot of money in those days for two young innocent boys from Newcastle.


Eventually, aged 18, after loafing around art college in the North, I moved to London and got a job in a restaurant near the Colony, in Covent Garden. By then I was definitely an art groupie and had grown up listening to stories about Francis Bacon did this and Lucian Freud did that in the Colony. I was bored and decided to go and find the place, as I remembered vaguely where it was. I remembered it was green and up some stairs, but so were all the brothels. On two occasions I found brothels. Being young and naive, I didn’t know what two young French models would be doing in the Colony, as I only remembered meeting Doctor Who (Tom Baker) and some other very glamorous, fat, drunk people in there. Eventually, I got the right door and walked in. It was terrifying. This thing that didn’t move off the “perch” said, “What the fuck you want, dear?” I had never been called dear in my life.

“I’m Charles Campbell’s son.”

“Charlie’s boy. Well, why the fuck didn’t you say so?”

A great, big, red, pock-marked nose lunged at me (the nose was later described by Patrick Conyngham the artist and poet as “a different planet”, it really was that big and definitely had craters in it) and his disgusting and fowl smelling mouth gave me a great, big, wet kiss, with a tongue just to round this experience off. I did not stay long, but long enough for Ian and Michael Wojas (who by then was the barman) to buy me so many drinks, which at that time I was not used to, that I was blind drunk. My terror evaporated. Finding it again would be the problem.

The shyness and terror wore off. I was a poor bus boy and got a lot of unwanted attention from older gay men, and because I was Charlie’s boy, lots of people would insist on buying me drinks and boring me to death about how wonderful he was. I thought so too, but I had heard it over and over again. Ian was always very generous to me and insisted on taking my wages, which were paid in cash every Friday, and giving me an allowance. So I had to be very charming to the clients in the restaurant and live on the tips, or go to the Colony every day. I went every day.

One of the best things about the Colony was that it opened at three o’clock in those days, because of the crazy licensing laws, which were a hangover from the War. All the pubs shut at three o’clock and reopened at five-thirty. I thought that was very civilized. While the saddos were working in dreary offices, I was quaffing champagne with Francis Bacon, John Edwards, Patrick Caulfield, Craigie Aitchison and a load of other freaks and has-beens. On more than one occasion, I became homeless or in-between flats and stayed at the Colony, but not by myself. Ian would not let me, sensibly. All that stopped when, early one morning, I felt his hand down my trousers, and being polite, I said nothing and moved a bit. It started again; I moved again. This went on and on, until I sat up and he went to the glass-cleaning sink and threw up again and again, until he had some brandy, and coughed up what he called “oysters” in his hanky. He then asked me if I wanted some orange juice. I said yes, and his shaking hand poured the juice, followed by a huge vodka. I couldn’t cope with the situation. I left and vowed never to be homeless again. Being an art groupie wasn’t all that glamorous after all.

His fowl mouth got him into trouble a few times. On one occasion, he turned on the local sex shop owner. After a barrage of abuse, the pornographer could take no more. Very quickly Ian pulled him off his perch, opened the door and threw him down the stairs. Twenty years later, I can admit that I took advantage and rushed behind the bar to buy the whole bar a stiff drink that I forgot to pay for.

Eventually, the Groucho Club opened next door, even though Ian had a fully rehearsed diatribe against it. I spotted him and Michael there a few times with the more well-heeled clientele from the Colony, but not Patrick Conyngham, who was banned on the opening night for peeing on a policeman’s helmet from the first floor window - although he did insist on using their facilities, like ordering a taxi even if he didn’t need one. If anything, it made the Colony better because the Club always closed early, at about ten-thirty, and the Groucho at one A.M.

Sadly, Ian died in the hospital after refusing any treatment for cancer. Michael took over and the Colony got a new lease on life, and gradually, a new set of artists. Damien Hirst reconditioned the “Jewish piano”, as Muriel used to call it, and it is now hopefully worth more than what is put into it in a year. Ian always liked the sound of the old-fashioned rings and bells because he said he could hear how much was going in, and it made an alarm-like noise every time it was opened.



Most of my family have been to the Colony. Even my grandmother seemed to know it well, although she would have found the Gargoyle Club across the road more comfortable. I did find a book on the Gargoyle, in which I found her name in an illustration of the signing-in book. Somewhere there are two Matisses, still buried underneath concrete and wallpaper. Most of my important birthdays, like 18, 21 and even my wedding day, was spent there. The only other thing I remember was the Belgium pedophile Marc DuTroux was caught, and it was reported in great detail by Roger Boyes. My favourite cousin and friend Dan regularly uses the Club. I think I introduced him, but he probably would have found it himself. He brought a very nice man called Steve-O from the Jackass T.V. series. I thought to myself, if he likes doing stupid things, I’ll show him. I opened the window next to the payphone, jumped out, and crawled and walked across some roves, thinking I knew the geography and layout of the Groucho Club well enough to know the ladies’ lavatory, which was always empty. But I got it wrong and climbed into a packed upstairs bar. But nobody seemed surprised that I was climbing into an impossible window with a celebrity, and the celebrity just thought this was normal and carried on the conversation we’d been having on the roof.

I live in France now, but every time I go to London I visit the freaks and losers - only now I am one of them.

Orlando Campbell aged 12