Hedgie Finds His Inner Ir.sh
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The hedgie was feeling insecure. “Why did you take the SOB (Shamed Obsolete Banker) to the Draycott and not me? I am in need of cheering up too. I fell further than he did.”
"Of course you did sweetie, and that’s why I’ve got something really fun planned for you."
"Really?"
"Yes, we’re going to the Irish Club where they know how to enjoy themselves."
"I know how to enjoy myself. The Irish just get all the good publicity."
I didn’t comment.
The Irish Club was originally housed in Eaton Square. After 50-odd years they finally realized they could have much more fun somewhere else and looked around for a building. They ended up tucked away near Blackfriars. This is a member's club, but one with fees that aren’t stupid (up to £450 a year at the most) and the hospitality you’d expect. There is, of course, the Guinness, which Hedgie pronounced excellent.
There is nothing pretentious here; the bar is simple, but the emphasis is on service provided by charming Irish and non-Irish staff who make you feel they are there purely to make sure you have a good time. It wasn’t long before Hedgie was laying claim to a string of jolly Irish ancestors and proclaiming that he wasn’t English at all. The Irish in the bar didn’t seem to mind at all even when he veered off into his silly accent.
As well as the bar, there are rooms for meetings and functions, and a restaurant serving simple hearty food at very reasonable prices - three courses for £18. While you have to be a member to eat here, you don’t have to be one to hold a function, and with a strong Irish community in the City, the location is a good one. They’re still settling in, and Charlie the manager informs us that they’ll be working on subduing the lighting to make it more intimate.
By the end of the evening, Hedgie had convinced himself he really was Irish, conjured up cousins called Danny and Sean, described holidays spent in Donegal, and mentioned something about studying classics at Trinity.
This is the sort of place to come when you want everyone to know your name even if, like Hedgie, you can’t remember it at the end of the night.
"Really?"
"Yes, we’re going to the Irish Club where they know how to enjoy themselves."
"I know how to enjoy myself. The Irish just get all the good publicity."
I didn’t comment.
The Irish Club was originally housed in Eaton Square. After 50-odd years they finally realized they could have much more fun somewhere else and looked around for a building. They ended up tucked away near Blackfriars. This is a member's club, but one with fees that aren’t stupid (up to £450 a year at the most) and the hospitality you’d expect. There is, of course, the Guinness, which Hedgie pronounced excellent.
There is nothing pretentious here; the bar is simple, but the emphasis is on service provided by charming Irish and non-Irish staff who make you feel they are there purely to make sure you have a good time. It wasn’t long before Hedgie was laying claim to a string of jolly Irish ancestors and proclaiming that he wasn’t English at all. The Irish in the bar didn’t seem to mind at all even when he veered off into his silly accent.
As well as the bar, there are rooms for meetings and functions, and a restaurant serving simple hearty food at very reasonable prices - three courses for £18. While you have to be a member to eat here, you don’t have to be one to hold a function, and with a strong Irish community in the City, the location is a good one. They’re still settling in, and Charlie the manager informs us that they’ll be working on subduing the lighting to make it more intimate.
By the end of the evening, Hedgie had convinced himself he really was Irish, conjured up cousins called Danny and Sean, described holidays spent in Donegal, and mentioned something about studying classics at Trinity.
This is the sort of place to come when you want everyone to know your name even if, like Hedgie, you can’t remember it at the end of the night.
Here Is The Writer : Ms Robinson
Ms Robinson was once a copywriter who wrote award winning ads and had eight hour lunches. Weary of the sex, glamour and lavish parties, she switched to corporate communications where she held the hands of executives and banned them from writing this execrable sentence: "In this ever changing world, the only constant is change itself." These days she writes for an increasing variety of people and has ghostwritten several books but if she told you who for, she'd have to kill you. Click here to read her blog, Woman of Experience.
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