Joseph Andrews.

There’s been much talk this week about Albert Finney’s breakthrough role in Tom Jones. This reminded me of Joseph Andrews, Henry Fielding’s other famous novel. And this reminded me of Gypsy Joe Andrews, who ran a photographic lab in Wardour Street called Joe’s Basement. In my first job, I went there practically every day. Thin, unkempt with a straggly beard, giant gold earring and 18 carat teeth, Joe spoke in an incoherent sixty-a-day Cockney rasp. His language remains the foulest I’ve ever heard and he called everyone “Cat!” As founder of the Soho Society, Joe seldom left its confines until he announced he was “moving to the country” “Where?” “Great Portland Street” Despite the gruff profane exterior, he was very kind, sending me a methuselah of champagne on my 21st. He died – unsurprisingly – from lung cancer but was such a legendary character that I sometimes think I must have made him up.