Last night I went to the Groucho. 

For the benefit of any overseas readers, the Groucho is a members-only club in London where you have to be extremely rich or extremely famous to join.

I am neither. I managed to sneak in below radar because I was there for a meeting.

I have to admit I was intrigued about what I’d find. And slightly wary. The idea of some kind of mutual masturbation society for luvvies didn’t exactly fill me with glee. But it was actually a lot of fun.

The minute you walk in the fug of self importance hits you like a cheap perfume. Loads of loud braying laughs and ‘look at me, aren’t I the dog’s wotsits‘ voices fill the air. As I made my way through the bar I actually heard the immortal line (in loud Sloaney accent), ‘But there just aren’t any blacks in Hampshire.’ 

A bit later on, on my way to the toilet, I encountered two well know TV presenters on the stairs. The poor loves were obviously suffering from terrible colds, judging by the amount of sniffing going on.

There was no sign of the renowned drug use in the toilets, however there was a bookshelf and two armchairs – which I thought was a nice touch.

On my way back up the stairs I coughed and a booming (incredibly posh) man’s voice called out from behind me, ‘how long ago did you stop smoking then?’

His tone was so familiar I assumed he must have been one of the members of my party.

‘Fourteen years,’ I replied turning to see a very dapper gentleman of about sixty. In my defence I should point out that he did look very like some of the men in my meeting (whom I had never met before that night!)

‘Oh dear,’ he said, drawing level with me and guiding me back into the main bar. ‘Could you cough again please.’

So I did as I was told and ended up coughing in the face of one of the stars of Gavin and Stacey who just happened to be sauntering past.

‘Hm,’ the man said. ‘It’s quite a dry cough, I think you’ll be all right. So, are you in showbiz?’

At this point alarm bells started to go off. Maybe he wasn’t one of my party after all?

‘I’m a writer,’ I replied. ‘Not exactly showbiz.’

‘How wonderful!’ he exclaimed with so much glee it was as if I’d just told him I’d found the cure for cancer. ‘And who is your literary agent?’

For a joke I gave him the name of one of the main characters in the book I’m currently working on.

The man actually took a step back in amazement. ‘That is absolutely incredible!’ he screamed. ‘You must come and drink some champagne with me.’

And with that he started moving me off in the direction of a more private bar at the back.

‘Well I’m actually here for a meeting,’ I began trying to explain.

‘I am a Harley Street doctor and I can diagnose many things just from looking at a person,’ he told me in a hushed voice. ‘I know that you are a mother and if you allow me to gaze into your eyes I will tell you exactly how many children you have.’

‘I have to go,’ I said, trying to make a break for it.

‘Wait,’ he commanded and stared into my eyes.

‘One child,’ he declared.

Correctly.

The Groucho is named after a Groucho Marx quote: ‘I wouldn’t join any club that would have me as a member.’

After last night I can kind of see why!