The first time I see George Melly, at an exhibition of new paintings by Lucian Freud, he is dressed casual: suede cowboy hat, dark jacket, sponge-soled trainers and a black eye-patch, the result of a detached retina. “This,” he declares of the exhibition, “is a collection of bits.” The second time I meet him, in the daytime gloom of Ronnie Scott’s jazz club in Soho, he is in full plumage: the hat