The Playboy Club on Park Lane was re-opened by Hugh Hefner in June, like an ancient bra he had suddenly remembered was lying under his bed. It has a casino, a bar, a barber’s shop, and a restaurant. My being here is pure masochism, and I should really write the review in the style of Stephen King’s The Shining — Red Rum, Red Rum! But here I am, with my boyfriend. He had to telephone to get a table, because in theory, it is Members Only — Frank Sinatra, James Bond, the King of Bhutan. But they let him in, so it isn’t.
We go in. It is clean, expressionless, like a movie actress. ‘Normally a bunny would show you upstairs,’ says the girl behind the desk, ‘but she is on a tour.’ Like a Big Bus Tour of the counter-counter sexual revolution? A man makes me open my bag.
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