Drink: Clubbable bottles

Gentlemen’s clubs attract far more interest than they deserve, and an equally unmerited degree of mistrust. If they are not the establishment in secret conclave, they must surely be a potent means of networking — and they exclude women. As for the establishment charge: if only. The country would be better run. The networking allegation, popular with female journalists, is easy to dismiss. Chaps go to their clubs to get away from business, not to be reminded of it.

Two editorial types who are old friends have managed to organise a drop of luncheon at the Garrick, which is increasingly difficult these days. There is always someone with a clipboard wanting a two o’clock meeting to discuss photocopying requirements for the third quarter of 2013. After their meal, they are having a digestif in that snug under the stairs. Would it be wise for some youth to appear, offering his services as an assistant features editor? Network: he might find that it was tightening around his throat. Anyway, a pretty girl journalist has far better opportunities to make contacts than her male contemporaries do.

Clubs are not serious places. They are about fun, laughter and talk. On the average members’ table, the conversation can switch in an instant from bawdry to books: from scandal to scholarship. There is also food and drink. Over the past 20 years, the quality of club cuisine has been transformed; most clubs now routinely produce good food. On occasions, especially during the game season, for ‘good’ read ‘superb’. But alas, there has been one backsliding. In the Eighties, many clubs bought first growths. There has been a melancholy, slow withdrawal, which is increasingly affecting the super-seconds as well. The same is true of Oxbridge colleges.