I have never been allowed, nor wish to have been allowed, membership into the hallowed halls of a private members club. That said, I have visited them, of a sort, over the years. Now when I say, ‘private members club’, I don’t mean ‘private members club’ (such as the Garrick, which we will come to shortly), but clubs where membership is a necessity, no matter how low rent the environment (see the Hastings fisherman’s club, Merthyr Tydfil ex-serviceman’s club and ‘working man's clubs scattered along the south coast of England).

The vibe in all was, and is, peculiarly similar, with the manager cum barman cum security operative often wearing a short sleeve shirt with a clip-on tie (now, as then, a big fashion no-no) as they eye you accusingly as you made your way through the wooden entrance doors which could do with a lick of WD40. Like sniffer dogs, they could tell in an instant if you were a member, past or present, even if your membership had lapsed 35 years ago, as you order a pint before raving to your assembled guests, all sitting around a rickety, stained wood, round table with a leg on the way out, as to how the round only cost £4.16 for four pints! For the first time in humankind, the participants are actively arguing over whose round it is next before realising that the cheap beer alone will not be enough for them to become regulars as the atmosphere in such dens is often lacking.

The pool table which still takes twenty pence pieces is a boon! Before you realise that the cues were last maintained when Ray Reardon was at his peak and the tips haven’t seen chalk since WW2.

Your feet stick to the floor as you make your way across the bar area to the toilets which still have a picture of Linda Lusardi adorning the wall before noticing the tap has rusted solid and there is a distinct absence of hand gel.

On your way back to the round table, now having been ‘fixed’ with a couple of makeshift beermats under the wobbly leg, you hit your head on a shrimp net (if it’s a fisherman’s club) or a rusty piece of antique farm machinery, which is logically placed upon the wall above customers' heads.

So yes, that is the type of members club I am used too, which is markedly different to the Garrick Club, which was recently in the news having finally, belatedly, voted to allow those pesky womenfolk to become members after 194 years of existence. Located in London’s theatreland, it boasts ‘excellent’ dining facilities, accommodation, and a theatrical library (the librarian does jazz hands with every borrow?). With a dress code of jackets and collared shirts and no jeans or trainers, they are certainly firm in their assertion that the hoi polloi will not pass!

The rules, already staid and stifling don’t stop there: Business matters are not allowed to be discussed in the clubhouse, photography is not permitted, and mobiles are banned, as is smoking. That said, on a positive note, they have provided some entertainment in the form of a billiard table which is as modern as it gets, with not even a dart board for a little variation or modernity.

But change is a natural, normal state and the Garrick allowing women members must be seen as a belated positive, yet the decision leaves me with but one question: Why on earth would any self-respecting female want to be a part of such a club, having not been welcomed for nearly 200 years? It might be your idea of fun, but it's not mine. Give me the Hastings old town fisherman’s club any day where anything goes, and you don’t even have to know owt’ about fish or wear your Sunday best to receive a cheap pint of John Smiths…

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher