Francis Bacon in his studio, 1967 Credit: Ian Berry/Magnum Photos It was dark outside but, in the lamplit tobacco clouds of the Colony Room Club in Soho, the proprietor Ian Board, his great swollen nose flushed with anger, had hopped down from his barstool perch by the door and was shouting at Francis Bacon with cries like a dog’s bark, his voice rough as a cheese-grater. Grabbing an umbrella from the back of the stool, he began to belabour the world’s foremost artist about the shoulders as he edged out of the door into the steep, black well of the stairs down to the street. “You can’t f------ paint!” yelled Board at Bacon descending the twisting steps, as lobbed ballpoint pens (kept for signing in guests) bounced off his jacket.