There ought to be a new literary award: the antisocial book of the year. A dozen years ago, Claire Tomalin’s Pepys would have won the laurels by a country mile. That Christmas, everyone seemed to have been given a copy, and normally healthy eaters would arise from the lunch table after only three hours, desperate to return to Pepys. It was impossible to raise a four for bridge. Although John Campbell’s biography of Roy Jenkins is not quite so compulsive, it would take this year’s prize.

Inter alia, Mr Campbell solves one of the small historical mysteries of our time. Denis Healey has always insisted that Roy was a closet homosexual. Despite his record as Chancellor, Denis has some grasp on reality. So what is going on? Roy would certainly have needed a vast closet to hide all his mistresses, whereas Denis always appeared to be contentedly uxorious. But was there a bat-squeak of subconscious envy? Now all is revealed. Roy had an undergraduate infatuation with Tony Crosland, which Denis knew about. Crosland remained ambidextrous; Roy emphatically did not. That did not inhibit Denis, who had the ingredients of a lifelong tease.

Roy was immensely engaging — one reason for the queue of mistresses. Before the phrase was invented, he knew all about the work/life balance. He wanted to play a major role in great events while enjoying himself. The enjoyment included wine, principally claret. With their complex classification, the wines of Bordeaux appeal to the Wisden-minded, which was one of Roy’s foibles. He loved making lists and deciding on hierarchies.

This could come perilously close to self-parody. When extracts of his Brussels diaries appeared in the Observer, it seemed that he had foot-faulted across the boundary. There were lots of references to the third best-read Queen he had ever met, or the fourth best wine list in the Grand Sablon. Chris Patten came up with a delicious summary: Mr Pooter comes to the Avenue Louise. I was to review the book. Plagiarism is the highest form of flattery. I decided to flatter Chris.

Then I read the book, and there was a problem. It was not true. Roy’s style was indeed orotund. His prose reminded one of old-fashioned grand French cooking. There were plenty of rich sauces; no one had stinted on the foie gras. But the master chef never lost control of the linguistic kitchen. That too was an antisocial book. Flattery would have to wait.

British left-wing gourmets have a difficulty, which would bewilder their French counterparts. Here, most comrades regard eating well as a form of class treason. Nothing is too good for the working class, proclaimed Nye Bevan. If Roy had said that, everybody would have laughed. There is a phrase attributed to Roy Hattersley: ‘I will do anything for the workers, except eat their food.’ Le Roi Jean Quinze could not have delivered the first half of that sentence without further laughter.

He rarely strained credulity, though he did occasionally insist that he would be quite content with an ordinary wine. No one was deceived. I once gave him dinner in the Ubiquitous Chip, a Glasgow establishment with a famous wine list. When I mentioned Petrus, there was a brief protest. I reassured him; this was probably the cheapest Petrus to be found in any restaurant in the land. It was — just — in two figures, 25 years ago. A 1964, it went superbly with the conversation, which was entirely about the Asquith era. I wish I had made a note of his aperçus and subtle witticisms, because I do not think that they were all in his life of Asquith, his best book. He was a man who regularly attracted the envy of the mean–minded, but his company gave pleasure to everyone else. The next time I drink a good enough bottle, a glass will be raised to his memory. If you have not already done so, read the book.