A day in the life of a modern-day butler

An age-old profession is getting a new lease of life as the super-rich demand their very own Jeeves.

Shakespeare’s The Tempest features the alcoholic Stephano, Agatha Christie epitomised the butler with cold murder and then there is the very sombre Alfred; Batman’s own batman. We, the butlers, the manservants, the major domos were a dying breed until now. A fresh influx of money into the hands of the discerning has placed butlers back in the pantry crafting butterballs and hanging shot pheasants to toughen in the larder.  

I was having a quarter-life crisis and had turned down an offer from a law-firm for a training contract when I chanced upon a job advert looking for butler. It was either that or an ill-advised trip to Papua New Guinea.

I turned up in a suit, an old-school tie and brown brogues. I hummed and hawed and managed to get the job on the sheer admiration I professed for Jeeves. Training started the very next day at the deep end - mimicking the move of the portly and balding head-butler. The second day of work, I spilled three glasses of Prosecco down the ivory back of an MP’s wife. 

Shifty suspects and secret drunks aside, the art of the modern butler is altruism at its best. Butlers live a life of anticipation. Whether the silver-haired administrator butler at a large estate or a housekeeper butler at a dual-income middle-class home, he or she is marked by a remarkable devotion to service. Ever nimble-toed, the efficient manservant can scurry like a dormouse through a lounge full of broken crockery, scooping, clearing and dusting even as the guest rests undisturbed, couched in a chesterfield with the latest edition of the Esquire at his elbow and a tawny port by his side. 

The Howard, the 18-room Georgian townhouse in Edinburgh where I worked alongside half a dozen other butlers, dedication goes a step further. Each butler is assigned a guest and expected to be assiduous in their service. Perhaps unsurprisingly we had our own take on our place in the modern egalitarian world - we see ourselves as working for the common good. I was once called to the door with a tray of the finest Assamese tea and coconut scones at ten in the evening. I was met with a rather under-dressed portly gentleman who ushered me to his dressing table. Sporting a marvellous Dali-esque moustache, a combover and ten fingers draped in rings, the patrician wanted a tin of styling wax. I rushed downstairs, desperately disconcerted, to be met with a colleague who, after supplying me with a fortifying cup of Rooibos, calmly proceeded to the guest’s suite with his tin of wax. 

Hospitality is a much maligned field. It is seen with a jaundiced eye and is subject to much derision. Robert Watson of the Guild of Butlers puts it down to the profession being seen as a stop-gap employment before moving on to "sensible" jobs. The butlers that I work with are seasoned to the point of perfection. I had much to live up to. Freddy, the elder, was the oldest of the serving butlers at the townhouse and knew the nooks and crannies of not only the townhouse but also of the guest’s needs even before they themselves knew what they wanted. In service of the establishment for nearly fifteen years now, he has seen and met dignitaries, superstars and divas. He knows far more about them and what makes their day than their own spouses do. Stuart, the grave bespectacled butler, holds me in thrall with the ease at which he "troubleshoots". Andrew, the miracle-worker, has never known a difficult guest and Barry, the quickfire, can prepare the world’s best martini in under forty seconds. Shaken, not stirred. 

All establishments that sport butlers and valets have a common, regimented structure. The hotel or townhouse is neat in its divisions of upstairs and downstairs. The feudal trappings of the Victorians might have faded but the gist remains. It is important for everyone in such an establishment to know their stated place.The heart of the establishment is the butler’s pantry in the sub-basement. It is a warm, tropical place, the steam condensing on the ceiling, and forever warbling with the sounds of cutlery being polished, the kettle singing, the coffee brewing, or the milk frothing. It is a place we butlers like to call our very own. The pantry is where the day begins and ends. No two days in the pantry are the same and every moment is laden with the prospect of something new and bizarre.

The day starts early with the amassed butlers breakfasting in staggered shifts, each savouring the same fare that is meant for the guests above. There is much talk of the guests, and their individual needs are discussed. Shoes are scuffed, teapots are warmed and collars are starched. I have a good look in the mirror and dart upstairs to check-in a guest into their suite. It is a well-orchestrated move; a tray of teas followed by a quick installation luggage in the rooms, unpacking the bags and laying out the rose petals on the four poster. On this day I have been summoned to picnic duties in St Andrews. I am to caddy out transatlantic guests at the Old Course and then to lay out the most sumptuous picnic under a blue Fife sky. There are tea cakes and scones, brownies and sandwiches, fruit and venison and much champagne to be had. A violinist has been borrowed from the students’ union and does a good job of playing Vivaldi’s La primavera

I was very fortunate to have made the acquaintance of Rick Fink, perhaps the most well-known and respected butler in the world. The septuagenarian has a wealth of experience, having started at the age of eighteen, and has worked for bosses ranging from country lairds to the Royal Family. Rick, once faced with an implausibly early breakfast demanded by his master, rushed to the barn to scour for eggs at three in the morning. As he relates, he was overjoyed to find four pristine eggs tucked away in a corner. Putting aside the concerns of the cackling hens and the scratches suffered, he brought the eggs home and laid them on the rack in the pantry. Satisfied that the needs of his employer would be taken care of in the morning, Rick went back to bed only to find himself awoken by chirruping from the kitchen. The eggs had hatched! 

Polishing shoes or tracing a crease on a moleskin trouser leg are works of devotion and not of haste. The journey towards a well-pressed shirt transcends the pressed shirt itself. To this end, Rick and I both share something in common - we were both in the navy for some time. While he was a Royal Navy Steward, I was a Royal Marines recruit. Rick and I both learnt our first valuable lessons in the military.

I asked James, an erstwhile manservant with a prominent earl from the south-west about his views on the newfangled ascendancy of the profession. He was sitting on his cottage porch on the gorse moors of Perthshire, languid and recumbent. Red socks, a paisley patterned cravat andlanguid air filled with the smoke from an oaky cigar dominated the view. James was critical of the modern butlers employed by the foreigners in London. “It's all a gimmick,” he added dismissively.

Even though the number of butlers is growing, discretion remains paramount. Many that I spoke to were loath to be named or share a story or two and with good reason. One replied with the sheer incredulity of a surgeon being asked to part with his own medical records.

I write this remembering the days when I would await further instructions from my guests with their luncheon on the meadows. A rather sunny day, we spot a peacock much to the glee of a young lady aged three. I reach the edge of the picnic cloth to serve the scones and tea when I hear the most satisfying words a butler can ever hope to hear:

“We don’t know what we would do without you”.

A butler brings his mistress breakfast in bed, in 1930. Photograph: Getty Images

Ritwik Deo is currently working on his first novel, about an Indian butler in Britain.

Getty Images.
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Tony Blair might be a toxic figure - but his influence endures

Politicians at home and abroad are borrowing from the former prime minister's playbook. 

On 24 May at Methodist Central Hall, Westminster, a short distance from where he once governed, Tony Blair resurfaced for a public discussion. Having arrived on an overnight flight, he looked drawn and puffy-eyed but soon warmed to his theme: a robust defence of liberal globalisation. He admitted, however, to bafflement at recent events in the world. "I thought I was pretty good at politics. But I look at politics today and I’m not sure I understand it."

Blair lost power in the summer of 2007. In the ensuing nine years, he lost reputation. His business ventures and alliances with autocrats have made him a pariah among both the public and his party. A YouGov poll published last year found that 61 per cent of voters regarded Blair as an electoral liability, while just 14 per cent viewed him as an asset. In contrast, John Major, whom he defeated by a landslide in 1997, had a neutral net rating of zero. It is ever harder to recall that Blair won not one general election (he is the only living Labour leader to have done so) but three.

His standing is likely to diminish further when the Iraq inquiry report is published on 6 July. Advance leaks to the Sunday Times suggest that he will be censured for allegedly guaranteeing British military support to the US a year before the invasion. Few minds on either side will be changed by the 2.6 million-word document. Yet its publication will help enshrine Iraq as the defining feature of a legacy that also includes the minimum wage, tax credits, Sure Start, devolution and civil partnerships.

Former leaders can ordinarily rely on their parties to act as a last line of defence. In Blair’s case, however, much of the greatest opprobrium comes from his own side. Jeremy Corbyn inclines to the view that Iraq was not merely a blunder but a crime. In last year’s Labour leadership election, Liz Kendall, the most Blair-esque candidate, was rewarded with 4.5 per cent of the vote. The former prime minister’s imprimatur has become the political equivalent of the black spot.

Yet outside of the Labour leadership, Blairism endures in notable and often surprising forms. Sadiq Khan won the party’s London mayoral selection by running to the left of Tessa Jowell, one of Tony Blair’s closest allies. But his successful campaign against Zac Goldsmith drew lessons from Blair’s election triumphs. Khan relentlessly presented himself as “pro-business” and reached out beyond Labour’s core vote. After his victory, he was liberated to use the B-word, contrasting what “Tony Blair did [in opposition]” with Corbyn’s approach.

In their defence of the UK’s EU membership, David Cameron and George Osborne have deployed arguments once advanced by New Labour. The strategically minded Chancellor has forged an unlikely friendship with his former nemesis Peter Mandelson. In the domestic sphere, through equal marriage, the National Living Wage and the 0.7 per cent overseas aid target, the Conservatives have built on, rather than dismantled, significant Labour achievements."They just swallowed the entire manual," Mandelson declared at a recent King’s College seminar. "They didn’t just read the executive summary, they are following the whole thing to the letter."

Among SNP supporters, "Blairite" is the pejorative of choice. But the parallels between their party and New Labour are more suggestive than they would wish. Like Blair, Alex Salmond and Nicola Sturgeon have avoided income tax rises in order to retain the support of middle-class Scottish conservatives. In a speech last August on education, Sturgeon echoed the Blairite mantra that "what matters is what works".

Beyond British shores, political leaders are similarly inspired by Blair – and less reticent about acknowledging as much. Matteo Renzi, the 41-year-old centre-left Italian prime minister, is a long-standing admirer. "I adore one of his sayings,” he remarked in 2013. “I love all the traditions of my party, except one: that of losing elections."

In France, the reform-minded prime minister, Manuel Valls, and the minister of economy, Emmanuel Macron, are also self-described Blairites. Macron, who in April launched his own political movement, En Marche!, will shortly decide whether to challenge for the presidency next year. When he was compared to Blair by the TV presenter Andrew Marr, his response reflected the former prime minister’s diminished domestic reputation: “I don’t know if, in your mouth, that is a promise or a threat.”

The continuing attraction of Blair’s “third way” to European politicians reflects the failure of the project’s social-democratic critics to construct an alternative. Those who have sought to do so have struggled both in office (François Hollande) and out of it (Ed Miliband). The left is increasingly polarised between reformers and radicals (Corbyn, Syriza, Podemos), with those in between straining for relevance.

Despite his long absences from Britain, Blair’s friends say that he remains immersed in the intricacies of Labour politics. He has privately warned MPs that any attempt to keep Corbyn off the ballot in the event of a leadership challenge would be overruled by the National Executive Committee. At Methodist Central Hall, he said of Corbyn’s supporters: “It’s clear they can take over a political party. What’s not clear to me is whether they can take over a country.”

It was Blair’s insufficient devotion to the former task that enabled the revival of the left. As Alastair Campbell recently acknowledged: “We failed to develop talent, failed to cement organisational and cultural change in the party and failed to secure our legacy.” Rather than effecting a permanent realignment, as the right of the party hoped and the left feared, New Labour failed to outlive its creators.

It instead endures in a fragmented form as politicians at home and abroad co-opt its defining features: its pro-business pragmatism, its big-tent electoralism, its presentational nous. Some of Corbyn’s ­allies privately fear that Labour will one day re-embrace Blairism. But its new adherents would never dare to use that name.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad