The Garrick Club
What it is: the Garrick is, as everyone knows now, an all-male members’ establishment.
Who goes there: lawyers who are soaks, soaks who were actors, journos, ambos and, as he never stops reminding us, Stephen Fry.
What to drink/eat: burgundy, rich gravy dishes and nursery puddings. Whatever it is they order, most of the members end up wearing it on their blazers, trousers or ties.
Likely to overhear: stories from the last days of the D’Oyly Carte with the C-word as their punchline.
Don’t say: “Aren’t pink and mint green quite girly colours?”
5 Hertford Street
What it is: a sort of holding pen for both the implausibly sexy and the sexually implausible, 5 Hertford Street is part restaurant designed by a dowager c1890 and part heavily upholstered nightclub. The latter, the infamous Loulou’s, is a good place to visit in the early hours of a Sunday morning to disabuse oneself of any lurking belief in human dignity.
Who goes there: British minor royals, Euro ex-royals, grandchildren of billionaires, film stars, Tory MPs, people pretending not to gawp at any of the above.
What to drink/eat: a glass of champagne, obviously, one of their actually quite good cocktails, then tap water for the rest of the evening, unless you’re putting it on Foreign Office expenses or a parent’s credit card.
Likely to overhear: the consonant-free braying of the genuinely posh.
Don’t say: “But do you actually still have a monarchy in Ruritania?”
The Weekend Essay
What’s the point of private members’ clubs?
Restrictive membership policies, elitism, overexpansion — London clubland is under fire. Joy Lo Dico explains why people are still queuing to get in
Soho House
What it is: a multiverse of global destinations, now presumably sentient in the manner of the Overlook Hotel from The Shining, except with Aesop handwash flowing out the lifts instead of blood.
Who goes there: now, mostly finance bros and their girlfriends.
What to drink/eat: if memory serves correctly, the menu is mostly American-style bar snacks repackaged for wealthy millennials. Nachos à la angst.
Likely to overhear: more than you ever wanted to about crypto, “Heeeeere’s Johnny!”
Don’t say: “Exactly when was this place cool again?”
The Oxford and Cambridge Club
What it is: Pall Mall’s answer to the depressing final hour of a school reunion.
Who goes there: people whose lives peaked in the second year of their PPE degree at a college you’ve not actually heard of.
What to drink/eat: the food is good and the club claret excellent – best consumed alone, quickly and ideally in silence.
Likely to overhear: made up stories about the Boat Race.
Don’t say: “Well, I had a great time at UCL.”
The Carlton
What it is: once the more convivial Death Star of the Conservative party; a place with the teensiest air of a provincial hotel both in clientele and decor.
Who goes there: worried-looking MPs, unworried-looking peers, horny spads.
What to drink/eat: anything to drown the general air of sorrow.
Likely to overhear: conversations about the post-election job hunt.
Don’t say: “I haven’t seen Lee Anderson in here for a while.”
The Reform Club
What it is: a St James’s gentlemen’s club for people who want to pretend they aren’t members of a St James’s gentlemen’s club.
Who goes there: New Labour grandees, wives of New Labour grandees, not Michael Palin, who was famously refused entry.
What to drink/eat: game birds during season, but feel guilty about it.
Likely to overhear: enthusiastic discussions about reforming the House of Lords conducted entirely by members of the House of Lords.
Don’t say: “Actually, I’m not sure the Great Reform Act was such a good idea.”
The Groucho Club
What it is: once the HQ of Cool Britannia, the middle-aged, coke-addled auntie of Dean Street can still pull off quite the evening, despite its recent announcement of a Yorkshire expansion fuelling questions about its direction under its most recent owners.
Who goes there: Britpop stars, devastatingly beautiful young actors, ageing PRs.
What to drink/eat: everything or nothing, depending on the amount or type of class A drugs in your system.
Likely to overhear: hugely defamatory stories about people who were big and/or died in the 1990s.
Don’t say: “Have you ever actually been to Wakefield?”
The House of KOKO
What it is: London’s newest and currently coolest club, a confusing web of rooms and side-rooms in Camden. Think the Winchester Mystery House but done by Tatler.
Who goes there: aristos, megastars, up-and-coming stars, people who know far too much about vinyl.
What to drink/eat: there are what seems like hundreds of bars, restaurants, kitchens and private rooms, so the options are endless. Just make sure you eat or drink a lot of whatever you have, to make up the eye-watering membership fee.
Likely to overhear: made-up stories about the Baftas.
Don’t say: “I’m actually more of a podcast person.”
Annabel’s
What it is: like shoulder pads, the Taliban and the Duke of York, Annabel’s was acceptable in the 1980s. Famously, it was once a place where Lady Annabel herself received a list of all those who visited the ladies and failed to wash their hands. Now, having moved two doors down, the branding is part vicereine’s secret garden, part Great Yarmouth strip club.
Who goes there: ladies who hate each other and yet still lunch, their hairdressers, people who enjoy tardigrade portion sizes and are also millionaires.
What to drink/eat: as per above, whatever you eat, order two of it.
Likely to overhear: vague bitching with a transatlantic accent.
Don’t say: “Are the Goldsmiths in much these days?”
Chelsea Arts Club
What it is: a sort of perpetual garden party down a Kensington side street, known for its liberal dress code and draconian phones policy.
Who goes there: a mix of studiedly eccentric locals, the clergy (undercover), aged luvvies, potters, the much younger lovers of any of the above.
What to drink/eat: buckets of rosé in the sun until someone has to call the St John Ambulance.
Likely to overhear: long anecdotes about why the bastards at the BBC wouldn’t give a second series.
Don’t say: “You are far west. Feels like Surrey!”
Fergus Butler-Gallie is author of ‘Touching Cloth: Confessions and Communions of a Young Priest’
