I was in the Groucho Club swapping self-satisfied greetings with leading hacks when the urge for nicotine became insistent and I stepped outside for a fag. The door hadn’t stopped swinging behind me when I was pounced on by a range of even more heartless, shameless characters. They were literally queuing to con cash out of me.
‘You want some coke, boss?’ ‘No, thank you.’ ‘Very good, very cheap.’ ‘No, thank you.’ ‘Boss, let me give you a sample right here. Blow your mind.’ ‘Go away.’ ‘Only £40. I give you my phone number. Money-back guarantee.’ ‘Get out of my face.’ ‘OK. Give me one cigarette.’
A smoke-blackened man took his place. ‘I need money for a bed for the night.’ ‘How much?’ ‘Nine pounds eighty.’ I felt in my pockets, which were empty. ‘Sorry, fella, but I’ve already given away all my change and smaller notes. If you like I can put you on the waiting list.’ ‘Give me £20, then.’
I was on a stag night. The last time I was in the Groucho Club I was thrown out for asking Tracey Emin for her autograph. She’s a lovely woman and obliged graciously. But the waitresses saw and reported me to the management. On this visit, however, my beggarly conduct wasn’t held against me and I managed to conform to the house rules until one o’clock, when we were asked to leave because the club was closing.
Outside on the pavement again, there was the usual conference about where to go next while being enfiladed and importuned on all sides by drug dealers, mendicants, minicab touts and rickshaw drivers. The conference was inconclusive. The homeless man was still demanding £9.80. Impatient to get away, another member of the party and I climbed aboard a rickshaw and told the pedaller to take us away.
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