My first time at the Groucho was perfect, in that I remember little of it. I was 19, friends of friends of friends whisked me through Soho during fashion week, and somehow we ended up there. My only memory is of trying to smoothly, seductively walk past Mark Ronson, tripping and nearly headbutting him instead.
Some years later, my old boss got me in to watch the results of the EU referendum. Screens had been put in the bar but the room itself hadn’t been closed off from the usual patrons. For as long as I live, I will picture some gruff hack pushing a gaggle of giggly teenage models out of the way while bellowing: “Move! Sunderland’s about to declare.”
