The greatest thing membership to a private club affords its members is this: gossip.
It is sitting at the bar ordering face-reddening pours of vodka while smugly remembering this is the place that once refused Al Pacino entry on the grounds he looked suspiciously like a tramp (the Groucho). It’s wondering, as the second bottle of Barolo is opened, whether it was this table or the one in the corner where Brexit was hatched (5 Hertford Street). Or it’s looking at the door and seeing an actor walk in with two Soho gangsters and wondering how the f*ck they both know each other (club nameless; actor definitely nameless).
