Geordie Greig went to his first Freud show as a schoolboy in 1978 and saw in him a delinquent hero whom he extols in the language of sex, drugs and thrown punches. ‘Lucian seemed to me just as disruptive and alluring as the Sex Pistols,’ he explains. ‘Keith Richards crossed with Picasso: libidinous, risk-taking, bold and threatening. I was hooked.’ In 2002, Greig was finally granted an audience in Freud’s Holland Park studio. At seven in the morning the two men ate the wing of a congealed partridge, washed down by red wine and green tea. Thereafter, they met regularly for breakfast. Now Greig has produced a memoir of those breakfasts, mixed with a deft, riveting summary of his interviews with some of Freud’s lovers, children, contemporaries and enemies. His book is also a champion bout of metropolitan snobbery.