Mes amis,
“Men wanted for hazardous journey. Small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful. Honour and recognition assured in case of success.”
Thus ran Sir Ernest Shackleton’s classified ad to man his famous 1914 South Pole expedition. The voyage proved to be hazardous indeed – his 300-ton schooner ‘Endurance’ was crushed like a beetle between two gigantic ice floes.
One would have thought that in the age of global satellite navigation such expeditions have long become obsolete. Lost Aztec cities, holy grails, Spanish galleons sunk by the weight of their precious load? These days they only exist in boys’ weeklies, you will object.
But you’d be wide off the mark, my friends. Because one treasure has so far eluded explorers from all corners of the globe – the affordable alcoholic drink after midnight.
Seasoned followers of these pages will hardly be surprised that a Romanoff had to embark on such an adventure sooner or later, its parameters (long darkness, bitter cold and doubtful personal safety) remaining unchanged since Shackleton’s day.
After thorough preparation at various West End base camps, I ventured into the long polar night of British licensing restrictions. On my frostbitten trail I encountered many magnificent specimens of that fabled urban giant – braving the cold, slow and ambling, yet ferocious – the British doorman. Their gruff replies all amounted to the same: refreshment was available, but would cost me a mortgage payment and, judging from the sound pressure of the ambience, the remainder of my hearing.
In a state of physical and spiritual exhaustion I finally staggered into the ice desert of Oxford Street. Suddenly I found myself aghast. In the depths of a small alleyway lay the remains of a long-forgotten civilization. Hot tears of joy unstuck my frozen eyelids as I shared Schliemann’s rapture at the discovery of the sunken city. From a first floor window, light flickered inside a long-closed speakeasy, now miraculously re-opened. It was the legendary place that once shared the name of Priam’s mighty fortress: The Troy Club.
In years past, it had pioneered a licence-law flouting scheme of bogus membership which would reward the exhausted adventurer with cheap refreshment until daybreak. Then as now, the mildly soused Brazilian bouncer was quickly hoodwinked by the Trojan Horse of my long-expired membership card. A final climb up the rickety stairs, the conquest of a vacant bar stool and an order from the affordable drinks menu completed my triumph over the elements.
To the tunes of a guitar-clutching David Bowie aficionado the hours melted away, whilst the Becks (at £2.50) flowed like water off an ice giant at the peak of the climate catastrophe. When it was finally time to turn homewards, I gratefully waved to my Brazilian friend who laughingly pointed to the faded sign by the entrance: “Only members are allowed to consume alcoholic beverages in this snack bar.”
What, my friends, could be more agreeable than being such a member, and of the oldest club of all – humanity?
Your
Max Obolensky
The Troy Club Hanway Street London WC1 Opening hours: occasional Friday and Saturday nights; exact times vary Nearest Underground: Tottenham Court Road
