Jeremy Clarke: it’s 3 a.m. in London’s bohemian quarter and not a reasonably priced drink in sight

It’s a disgrace!

I went up to London from Devon, a hick up from the sticks, to Annabel’s in Berkeley Square to a ‘party to start the Christmas party season’, it said on the invitation. ‘Eight till late.’ ‘Champagne, cocktails and old school fun.’ I’d never been to Annabel’s. I’d never dreamed of going to Annabel’s. I was always fairly certain that if I did go to Annabel’s I wouldn’t be allowed in. They’d just laugh.

I took a cab from Paddington to Mayfair. It curvetted smoothly to a halt two pavement-slab widths from the discreet entrance. As I searched my pockets for cash, a volunteer from among the paparazzi lounging against the railings sprang forward and peered rudely in, shading his eyes against the reflections in the glass. If he’d turned away in frank disappointment, I would have understood, even sympathised. But he sort of recoiled, as though he’d heard the rumours that the barbarians were at the gate, but here was one come enterprisingly by taxi to the very beating heart of the city.