‘I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member’ quipped the immortal Groucho Marx. The delicious irony, of course, is that if our beloved brother tried his absolute damnest to become a member of the eponymous club right now, he’d almost certainly be told to join the impressive waiting list of reality show cast-offs (castaways?) and call back in a decades time. It seems odd to me that in the largest Metropolitan centre in Europe, we refuse to accept our capital for what it is. It remains a tremendously colourful and exciting place to many. But it also remains aloof; an impersonal, ever-changing circus where we all ‘reside’ but rarely ‘live’.

Hence the relentless popularity of the members club. Face it, we all want to belong. And we all want the hottest ticket in town. Oh, and wouldn’t it be nice if we get to walk through a few doors that only noteriety, status, cash or a ‘Russian passport’ (all three) buys a key to? Absolutely. Except that actually joining one of London’s exclusive private members clubs is a singularly impossible task, akin to feeding a dozen oysters into a parking meter in under a minute (urban bush-tucker trials anyone?). For a start, there’s the three year waiting list at Soho House. “I live opposite and a like a drink or two” didn’t cut me any slack with Shoreditch House either. Forget the old-school ones like Blakes or Whites - for a start, unless you’ve had carnal knowledge of at least three Winchester choirboys, can decant a Montrachet in five seconds flat, link your DNA to the waiting staff of HRH, and answer to the name of ‘Bufty’ or ‘Spiggins’, there’s no chance.

I can, of course, scoff at these rebukes with a Marx riposte. And join the Mile End Snooker Club on Bethnal Green Road. A pound a pint, a free scratchcard once a month plus entertainment in the form of a bloke that plays the spoons every Thursday. What could be more fun?