Francis Bacon in Your Blood by Michael Peppiatt Page B

champagne?’
    â€˜I think it should be champagne, champagne all round,’ Denis rejoins, waggling his exultant head from side to side. ‘Now that I’ve exposed the fat critic for what he is, a fake and a smarmer who’s made it up the ladder by clinging to Francis’s coat tails.’
    Sylvester is breathing heavily and beads of sweat have begun to snake down his face and disappear into his beard.
    â€˜You little worm,’ he says, his bulky chest heaving. ‘If I have never included you in a review, it’s because you’re a nothing. You can’t call what you do “painting”. It’s a travesty of painting, even if Francis once allowed you to paint some grass in for him.’
    â€˜And such beautiful grass it was,’ says Denis, moving towards him. ‘I expect it’s what you liked best about the picture because Francis says you have no eye for painting at all. He says you only see things when they’re pointed out to you. Those I’m afraid are simply all the facts.’
    â€˜When did you last have all the fucks, dear?’ says Muriel, sensing trouble. ‘I think it’s time you both piped down and stayed with the fucks.’
    But Sylvester is clearly not about to restrain himself.
    â€˜You pathetic little pansy,’ he bellows, throwing the contents of his glass in Denis’s face. ‘How dare you try to come between Francis and me?’
    â€˜Can’t face the truth, critic, can we? Dish out the criticism but can’t take it!’ says Denis, his face gleaming as much from the aptness of his remarks as from the thrown wine.
    But before he can continue the performance, Sylvester roars like a wounded man and with his pendulous belly swaying lunges out to punch Denis full in the face. Denis staggers back and collapses on the floor, face up, with blood streaming from his nose. As Sylvester retires heaving with emotion to his corner by the bar, Magnus and I approach tentatively, with not much in mind, trying desperately to remember whether you are meant to move the wounded or not. Meanwhile, Denis seems to be continuing his anti-Sylvester campaign from the floor, his mouth bubbling with blood but forming perfectly modulated fragmentsof conversation to which ‘You’ve always punched beneath your weight, you ghastly tub of lard’ returns like a refrain. Gingerly we prop him up, then help him to his feet, standing on either side of him and holding his elbows. Then we realize that behind the blood coursing over his lips and chin Denis is actually grinning, as ghastly a sight as it is incomprehensible. He actually seems to be enjoying the situation, and he totters over to the bar crying out: ‘Champagne! Champagne for everyone!’
    At which Muriel, who has been watching the scene from her stool in unconcealed alarm, turns to the barman quick as a whip and says: ‘Come on, dear, open the champagne before our bleedin’ heroine changes her mind.’
    â€˜First blood, now wine,’ Ian pipes up. ‘Like a li-bation.’
    â€˜More like a bleedin’ li-ability, dear. Now open the bottle and take the money.’
    Champagne served, Denis begins a tour of triumph, oblivious to Sylvester, still pouring out his grievances to anyone in earshot, as if he had been awarded a distinction – wounded in a fight for truth. No one begrudges him this self-conferred honour, especially as, in a rare departure from Colony Room convention, Ian has darted out from behind the bar to ensure the wine keeps flowing. Also very visibly flowing is the blood from Denis’s nose which has swelled to twice its size and taken on an even darker purplish hue than the rest of his face. None of this appears to concern its owner, however, who is weaving from group to group to receive his due and would no doubt have continued until evening had the club door not opened to reveal Dickie, his companion in what was well known as