As a professional barfly and idler par excellence, Henrietta Moraes became a muse to Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, Maggi Hambling and Marianne Faithfull. Here author Darren Coffield introduces us to her world

In Muriel [Belcher, owner of Soho’s Colony Room Club], Henrietta found a witty, foul-mouthed mother figure and a generous hostess to boot. As Hen’s friend, Sandy Fawkes, said: ‘It was drinks all round and that included poverty-stricken poet Paul Potts and every down-on-his-luck actor, writer or painter present who could not dream of returning the compliment.’

However, if you didn’t walk into the club with confidence, Muriel would verbally slaughter you: ‘Shut that door! The wind is blowing right up my cunt.’ Famous for her wit and infamous for her devastating put-downs, Muriel’s humour was infectious – the delivery, the body language, the coarse juxtapositions and the sense of shared absurdity. Henrietta said that from the moment they first met they hit it off:

Her greeting was ‘Hello Cunty!’, which could be quite frightening if you were feeling frail. But her club was definitely her home, where she reigned and her word was law.

Muriel’s, as the club was affectionately known, worked so well because the members were friends of Muriel, attending her slightly mad party.

Upon entering the premises, the club’s pianist, Mike McKenzie, would break off his current tune to play each new arrival in with a theme song he’d chosen for them – either flattering, like ‘You Go To My Head’, or in Hen’s case, one loaded with innuendo as she once again came nose to nose with Muriel, ‘Hello Henrietta, how are you love?’ Then looking at whoever or whatever was in tow, ‘Is this cunt with you? Sign them in then … Hello cunty, what’s your name?’ Henrietta would have forewarned her companions whilst ascending the stairs that if Muriel called you a cunt twice in quick succession it meant she liked you.

Those who frequented the Colony could clearly remember the first time they went there. Like the recipient of a major shock, or stumbling upon a murder scene, Muriel left her mark on anyone who entered. Everyone who walked in through that door had to be examined:

‘Who are you? Members only!’ she’d shriek. But she liked the purses and the handbags being opened: ‘How’s your handbag today, dear? Get that handbag out, girl!’ The only unforgiveable sin in the club was to be boring. Muriel was keen on the money, but if you were too boring that was it:

‘Members only’, dearie, and get a facelift on the way! I can’t stand respectability just for the sake of respectability. Nor people who bore the shit out of me … unless I feel in the mood for a bit of camping.

Hen’s best friend during this period was a beguiling blonde called Caryl Chance, together they formed something of a double act. Like the characters in the eponymous Hollywood movie Thelma and Louise, they were always breaking the rules and behaving so recklessly they might career over the edge at any moment.

They had taken to preying on expensive restaurants – Caryl always found someone to offload the bill on and Hen provided the chutzpah, the sheer devilry that gained them the initial entry. Hen loved Caryl because, like Muriel, she never bored her.

For Hen and Caryl, the Colony held the fascination of forbidden fruit, a tiny one-room world, where they could be found at 4 p.m. on a sunny afternoon, gossiping their lives away.

The club became an impromptu performance space where Muriel was the ringmaster and their feverish conversation made the very room where they drank into a theatre.

Some would recite poetry, others might burst into song, but Hen told extremely funny stories, like the time she was at the opening party of Francis Bacon’s exhibition at the Hanover Gallery, Mayfair. The paintings were still wet and when Henrietta became pressed against one in the crush, she walked away with a Screaming Pope on her back … and she continued to make everyone laugh that afternoon when she relayed a recent anecdote about her and Caryl dining in the deep gloom of a posh restaurant. Hen had pulled out at random from her handbag one of the Havana cigars she was partial to smoking. No sooner had she done so, as if by magic a waiter popped up and lit it for her. He should have then disappeared but instead began giggling as he struck match after match trying to light it. Wondering why her Havana was the object of such hilarity, Hen stared at her cigar and realised she was puffing on a Super Tampax.

This is an extract from Hen: Mistress of Mayhem by Darren Coffield (The History Press, £25). Signed copies are available here.

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