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Last week I joined a club. No, I mean literally. This is not a throwaway statement about how I acknowledged a friend becoming a new parent, nor shared an unfortunate event, nor have I joined a sporting establishment. I mean a 'club' club. It's not the first time, I should add. I once had a membership to one of those old boys' parades in St James's, all cigar smoke and wood panelling and women permitted on certain occasions if there was a full moon and only if they behaved themselves. It was membership by default; I played a game of snooker or two over a subsidised pint or two and a handful of peanuts or two, but otherwise I realised I wasn't really suited to old boys. Since then, I've piggy-backed others' memberships. With a career in media (of sorts), it seemed fitting that I should attend some of the 'trendier' establishments. They have their place, but they seem as vain as those that frequent them. Invariably packed to the rafters,

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