Clubbable?
Mar. 7th, 2007 06:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rhythmaningA couple of days in London.
I met up with my brother yesterday evening; he took me to the Groucho Club. I am not sure I really get the idea of clubs in London - especially for people who live in London. For visitors perhaps - for me when I am down from Edinburgh, say - it might be useful to have a base, somewhere to meet people, somewhere one knows. But London isn't short of meeting places – cafes, pubs, restaurants - and for people who live there, who know these places, why would they need a club? (This is a little hypocritical, I know: in Edinburgh I more frequently go to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society - a club, of course - than anywhere else.)
It is many years since I have been to the Groucho; it is a place I associate with my father, who used it a lot. It hasn't changed much; indeed, I can't say it has changed at all. There is a certain shabbiness now - the stuffing is visibly coming out of the sofas; the chairs are worn through at their arms; the paintwork is scratched, the whist plaster showing through.
It was busy - a reason not to be there, I guess. We sat and drank beer. The service wasn't good to start with - they really didn't want to give me my beer (strange, since it really was expensive beer; even by London standards. Really, really expensive). There was a time when I would have known people there - friends of my parents. Now, the only faces I recognised were off the screen. (If you are interested, the slebs I recognised were: Alison Steadman, who looked younger and more glam than I pictured her; Ian Hislop, who looked more bald; Howard Marks, louche and dissolute; Irma Kurtz; Max Beesley, now an actor but formerly a rather good vibes player - I saw him play several times during the early nineties jazz revival [or was it the eighties jazz revival? I forget. Wait long enough, another will be along], and it is a shame he no longer plays; or perhaps he does; and Roland Rivron, another percussionist. Both Beesley and Rivron stopped by to chat to Marks - queen bee, clearly. Part of me thinks it sad that I recognised these people; sadder that I feel the need to write about it...)
My brother and I sat and drank, and talked. It was a couple of months since we last saw each other - this means we have seen a lot of each other compared to some periods (not deliberately; but we live in different countries - me in Scotland, he somewhere over the Atlantic or Indian oceans). We had a fair bit to talk about: me, him, family curses. Parents. Our respective mid-life crises.
We ate in the Groucho, too. The food was good value, though not brilliant food. The house white wine was insipid and tasteless. At the next table, a couple were having animated conversations. The woman drew out a packet of Marlboro Lights and leaned across to us: she asked if we would mind if she smoked. “Yes, I would,” I replied. “Well,” she said, “I could smoke anyway, I was only being polite.” “I know,” I said, “but you asked me if I minded, and I do; why ask me if you are going to smoke anyway?” She huffily got up and went to the bar.
I had noticed the smoke: since Scotland banned smoking in enclosed public spaces (even bus shelters! Ha), I am very aware of the smell of smoke in bars and restaurants in England. (OK, in the few parts of England I have visited in the last year.) The Groucho bar seemed very smoky. It is part of the place, a defining characteristic. But then I couldn't conceive of smoke-free pubs before they became a reality in Scotland; and now it seems strange to smell tobacco in a pub.
It was a good evening; my brother and I had a fair bit to talk about. And talk we did.
I met up with my brother yesterday evening; he took me to the Groucho Club. I am not sure I really get the idea of clubs in London - especially for people who live in London. For visitors perhaps - for me when I am down from Edinburgh, say - it might be useful to have a base, somewhere to meet people, somewhere one knows. But London isn't short of meeting places – cafes, pubs, restaurants - and for people who live there, who know these places, why would they need a club? (This is a little hypocritical, I know: in Edinburgh I more frequently go to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society - a club, of course - than anywhere else.)
It is many years since I have been to the Groucho; it is a place I associate with my father, who used it a lot. It hasn't changed much; indeed, I can't say it has changed at all. There is a certain shabbiness now - the stuffing is visibly coming out of the sofas; the chairs are worn through at their arms; the paintwork is scratched, the whist plaster showing through.
It was busy - a reason not to be there, I guess. We sat and drank beer. The service wasn't good to start with - they really didn't want to give me my beer (strange, since it really was expensive beer; even by London standards. Really, really expensive). There was a time when I would have known people there - friends of my parents. Now, the only faces I recognised were off the screen. (If you are interested, the slebs I recognised were: Alison Steadman, who looked younger and more glam than I pictured her; Ian Hislop, who looked more bald; Howard Marks, louche and dissolute; Irma Kurtz; Max Beesley, now an actor but formerly a rather good vibes player - I saw him play several times during the early nineties jazz revival [or was it the eighties jazz revival? I forget. Wait long enough, another will be along], and it is a shame he no longer plays; or perhaps he does; and Roland Rivron, another percussionist. Both Beesley and Rivron stopped by to chat to Marks - queen bee, clearly. Part of me thinks it sad that I recognised these people; sadder that I feel the need to write about it...)
My brother and I sat and drank, and talked. It was a couple of months since we last saw each other - this means we have seen a lot of each other compared to some periods (not deliberately; but we live in different countries - me in Scotland, he somewhere over the Atlantic or Indian oceans). We had a fair bit to talk about: me, him, family curses. Parents. Our respective mid-life crises.
We ate in the Groucho, too. The food was good value, though not brilliant food. The house white wine was insipid and tasteless. At the next table, a couple were having animated conversations. The woman drew out a packet of Marlboro Lights and leaned across to us: she asked if we would mind if she smoked. “Yes, I would,” I replied. “Well,” she said, “I could smoke anyway, I was only being polite.” “I know,” I said, “but you asked me if I minded, and I do; why ask me if you are going to smoke anyway?” She huffily got up and went to the bar.
I had noticed the smoke: since Scotland banned smoking in enclosed public spaces (even bus shelters! Ha), I am very aware of the smell of smoke in bars and restaurants in England. (OK, in the few parts of England I have visited in the last year.) The Groucho bar seemed very smoky. It is part of the place, a defining characteristic. But then I couldn't conceive of smoke-free pubs before they became a reality in Scotland; and now it seems strange to smell tobacco in a pub.
It was a good evening; my brother and I had a fair bit to talk about. And talk we did.