Floyd Uncorked!

I met Keith Floyd when I was charged with the delightful task of ‘looking after him’ for an evening, when he was giving an after dinner speech, at the Dunkenhalgh Hotel, during his, ‘Floyd Uncorked!’ tour. A little known fact was that Keith suffered dreadful stage nerves, and, in my brief, I was told not to let him off the premises, because he may not return! It transpired it was already too late for this…Keith and his driver had ‘landed’ at the hotel, deposited their bags, and immediately left; this was a worry!

As early evening approached, a whisper went round the hotel, much to everyone’s relief… “Mr. Floyd’s here…he’s here…” staff members could be seen, peeping round corners, or out of the kitchen, hoping for a glance of this ‘legend’.

I rang Keith’s room, and was greeted by a gruff, “Hello, who are you?” It was Keith’s driver, and ‘minder’ for the trip. I explained who I was, and we agreed to meet in the entrance hall.

Keith arrived, looking flustered, and fiddling with his bow-tie, “Blessed thing.” He grumbled, “Some woman, at last night’s ‘gig’ took my tie, and handkerchief, as a souvenir, we had to go into some God-forsaken local town, when we got here, to get a replacement, it’s not silk, you know; bloody polyester!” This couldn’t have been a better ‘opener’ for me…

“Mr. Floyd?” I falteringly started, “Whilst we are on the subject of clothing, please may I mention my footwear, before you say anything?”

It wasn’t how I’d envisaged meeting my culinary ‘hero’, in a cocktail dress, but, as my shoes had been whisked away in the wrong car, wearing hotel leisure club, white ‘mules’!

Keith’s face broke into a warm, and understanding smile.

“My shoes are ‘winging’ their way, across the county, as we speak!”

Keith broke in with, “It’s not Mr. Floyd, Philippa; call me ‘Floydie’.”

I took ‘Floydie’ to have a look at the room, and ‘stage’ his props, for later on, then went to meet guests, in the bar; he was obviously very uncomfortable, he jiggled my arm, and whispered, “Get me out of here, Philippa.”

We went outside, whereupon Keith sent me straight back to get him a ‘large Scotch’, he did the obligatory press calls, and then asked if we may adjourn to the quieter, hotel residents’ bar. Another couple of drinks, and Keith was starting to settle down. My shoes arrived, and he directed that I put them on, further requesting that I gave him, ‘A twirl!’ He raised his pinched finger, and thumb, into the air, and pronounced that it was, “Perfection!” and that I looked like “Tinkerbell, from Peter Pan”, not something that I ever believe shall be said of me, again!

With shoes ‘sorted’, this was like a red rag to the rising ‘cabin fever’, which had set in. “Right, Philippa, where are you taking me?” I asked if there was a suitable pub, aware that there was only an hour, now, until the speeches; the young bar tender suggested a local hostelry, adding, nervously, “But it’s karaoke night!” I shared the news with Keith; completely undeterred, he slung back the contents of his glass, and gaily tripped across the dampening, autumnal grass, moving his head, in flamboyant ‘Mick Jagger’ fashion, singing, “I can’t get noooooo…oooo…oooo, sat…isfaction!”

Keith enjoyed his brief sortie; a lady who flung herself at him managed to get her knitted top caught fast, on the buttons of his jacket, but he was much more interested in the ‘totty factor’, asking me if all ‘northern lasses’ go out, wearing just their ‘nighties’?!

Back at the venue, views about his political ‘lack of correctness’ were slightly misplaced, as Keith fretted that he was to address, ‘The Lady Mayor, and her Consort’ although this actually was delivered as, “The Mayoress, and that big bird, with her, wearing the gold chain!” Which both ladies later declared was, “Hilarious!”

The dinner ended, and Keith requested that we return to the hotel bar. Deciding, at around 0430hrs that most guests had retired to bed, and that Keith would be imminently doing likewise, I said my, ‘Goodbye.’ to him.

I felt it an honour, and a privilege to have met Keith Floyd, but was saddened by something, at the time, which has emerged, since his death. For all the jet-setting, and glamour, the women, and his lifestyle, Keith was incredibly lonely…he had good, and close friends, ‘Yes.’ but, as he said, “When you go back to yet another hotel room, what is there, really there?”

I am so pleased that ‘Floydie’ went out with a ‘bang’, succumbing to a heart attack, after dining on oysters, and partridge, and drinking Champagne. There couldn’t be a finer, “Adieu!” to this charming man; inspirational and iconic, television ‘celebrity cook’, bon viveur, raconteur, and restauranteur, or, as Keith may have summed it up, “Gastronaught!”