Fear of the tabloid press creates strange drinking partners

It dawned on me this week - as I clapped and cheered well-known bands, shoulder to shoulder with Chrissie Hynde and Annie Lennox - that I now share the Millbank tendency's fear that tape recorders lurk everywhere except the Groucho Club. Once upon a time, I would go "down the snooker club" in E11 to drink vodka alongside local laundry workers and petty criminals. These days, it's private bar and Uber-celebs or nothing, sweetie.

My laissez-faire lifestyle changed two years ago, after an evening at that arriviste hell-hole, Soho House, the Britney Spears of exclusive bars. My agent suggested dinner there on a Tuesday night and, very reluctantly, I agreed. After I had pushed through the urine-stained doorway in Greek Street and climbed the stairs, the throb of Nineties house music and the sound of dotcom wannabes on mobiles surrounded me like a familiar but enervating smell. The bar area was filled with the tiniest waists and blondest hair outside an episode of Friends or Ally McBeal. Perching on a crisply modern stool and breathing in waves of fashionable-brand cigarette smoke and CK One perfume, I could see why Chris Evans is a regular and downs endless beers without the psychological protection of his trademark glasses. Soho House serves hot media totty on tap. All the girls are pretty PRs or work for unknown television production companies. The door policy is another attraction. Soho House claims to ban drugs and tabloid hacks.

I was considering joining myself but, that night, it seemed that something had gone wrong with the door policy on both counts. A guy approached me at the bar and began rubbing and patting his trouser pockets in a lewd manner. He introduced himself with a big grin and, over the throbbing bass line, yelled: "I've got somefink for you in dis pocket." I complimented him on the crassest chat-up line I had heard for years. He enthusiastically explained that he wasn't offering sex, but as much cocaine as I wanted, free.

In business circles, there is no such thing as a free lunch, but in media circles, you can bet your Jaguar XJS that there is absolutely no such thing as a free gram of coke. Suddenly, a blonde waiflet dressed a la Tara P-T joined us. She may as well have worn a sign saying "I work in journalism" around her neck. Looking quizzically at her hotshot pal, she quickly bought us a bottle of wine and then moved to the other side of the bar to observe the fun. More desperate urging followed from the pusher, and ever sneakier, hopeful glances flew our way from Little Miss Pulitzer Prize. I made my excuses and left.

By contrast, the Groucho Club is second home to an eclectic mix of elderly writers such as Keith Waterhouse and other been-there-seen-it-done-it-all superstars. If Soho House is the pierced midriffs and enthusiasm teen sensation of exclusive drinking-dens, then the Groucho is her waspish, wiser and hungover big sister. On Saturday night, as I sat next to Chrissie and Annie giggling at a barber-shop quartet called Four Poofs and a Piano, I thanked my lucky stars that paranoia has entered my life. In Shakespeare's day, misery acquainted men with strange bedfellows; in the 21st century, it is fear of the tabloid splash that forges odd friendships. Just look at the way a nice, quiet husband from Islington clings to the darkly destructive friendship offered by a cosmopolitan Macchiavelli. Only the politics of paranoia could unite Tony Blair and Peter Mandelson; and only the Groucho Club could bring me within bowing distance of intergalactic fame.

Post this article to

• Digg
• del.icio.us
• newsvine
• NowPublic
• Shoutwire
• Reddit

We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by using the 'report this comment' facility or by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.