INDIANA JONES & THE GUILD DINNER

My friend had invited me to the event due to his family bearing one of the oldest and most well established Guild family names in the United Kingdom. Derived from some Scottish clan, the name alone afforded them a few seats each year at an annual banquet held at the Merchant Tailors' Hall in Threadneedle Street.  

If ever there was an unlikely plus one to such an event, it was surely me, looking like an ill fitted bohemian in this gathering of successful people.

Nevertheless, my silver tongue and rogue charisma put me in good stead as I conversed with some of the many families and friends assembled from ancestries related to various Guild professions. Guilds, as far as I understand it, were essentially associations for tradesmen. These associations have also been referred to as unions, cartels and secret societies.

With visions of masked strangers, I put my hand out for a secret handshake but was met with a glass of wine instead. Not a bad greeting, I suppose.

From there on in the whole evening was a bit of a blur as I spent a good portion of it imbibing copious amounts of red wine. I do vaguely recall through the soft mists of time that the venue brought to mind an atmopshere of Eyes Wide Shut (with clothes on) crossed with Hogwarts and Spielberg's Young Sherlock Holmes. I half expected a blood sacrifice to be carried out at some point, but was, alas, disappointed.

There hadn't been a human sacrifice but there had been an animal one.

A small plate of Swan was presented to each and every one of us (courtesy of the Queen). My inner Lohengrin died that night. I still have visions of being reprimanded by God at the gates of St Peter for partaking in such decadence. What did it taste like, I hear you ask? I actually can't remember much about its taste, only that it was better than the one time I'd eaten goose, which was a fatty unpleasant experience never to be repeated.

"What time's the next swan?" I said to the fellow diner on my right, quoting the German tenor Lauritz Melchior who famously asked a cast member after missing his swan entrance in Wagner's famous Romantic opera about Grail Knights and swans.

"I'm not sure. But the goblet will soon be arriving."

Goblet, I thought to myself. What's going on here?

The mystery of the goblet would soon be revealed.

Walter Donovan: [Elsa selects the gaudiest cup in the Grail Chamber, for Donovan] This is indeed the cup of the King of Kings.

[He drinks from the "Grail", and proceeds to age rapidly]

Walter Donovan: What's happening to me?

[Panicked, he grabs Elsa while transforming into a hideous aberration. Elsa screams in horror as Donovan becomes a skeletal monstrosity, which Indy wrenches away from her. Donovan is thrown backward and reduced to a cloud of dust, which drafts carry from the chamber]

Grail Knight: He chose... poorly.

A treble's tremulous voice heralded the arrival of the aforementioned goblet as each of the guests stood up in anticipation of what appeared to be a pre-planned cermony of sorts.

It turned out that a single receptacle was passed from guest to guest, with each one taking a sip from the goblet before passing it onto their fellow diner.

After finishing my small sip of wine I then proceeded to turn to the guest on my right and pass the goblet onto him.

Having not previously paid attention to who I had been talking to and considerably drunk at this stage, it was only when he lifted the goblet to his own lips that I recognised him instantly, like some sort of VHS karmic flashback.

It was Walter Donovan! Assistant to the Nazis in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade.

Okay, he wasn't Walter Donovan literally. He was the actor who played him in Spielberg's 1989 film. Julian Glover.

The uncanny synchronicity of the present moment with the famous scene where Donovan drinks from the Holy Grail in the secret cave was too obvious not to mention.

"I've seen this scene before!" I exclaimed to the esteeemed British actor.

He looked at me, and laughed uproariously.

"Haha! YES!"

As he took an exaggerated slurp of the blood red wine and revelled in the moment a little too convincingly, my perception of reality and Hollywood was blurred once again.

For those of you familar with the famous scene, you'll remember the moment when the deceitful American, Donovan, is suddenly reduced to an ever receding skeleton after drinking from the wrong cup.

I half expected a repeat of the scene to play out in front of my own eyes, but am happy to report the actor lived on, managing to avoid the supernatural fate of his fictional counterpart, Donovan.

When people talk about reality being a simulation, I often think back on that insane moment where life and art matched each other almost too well.

My own regret is that I didn't bring my wide brimmed fedora and bull whip that night.

Maybe next time.