YES Groucho Marx didn't want to belong to any club that would have him, and neither do I. When it comes to the crusty, fusty confines of the Hong Kong Club, I would say the chances of them welcoming a penniless hack from the outer reaches of the antipodes with absolutely no social connections are about the same as Tung Chee-hwa getting a permanent wave. Which is precisely why I'm gagging to get in.
It is a fundamental facet of human nature that the grass is always far more verdant somewhere other than in your own crummy little windowbox. We are strange and greedy creatures, and no matter what trappings of success we accumulate, what someone else has got always looks better. In my case, I've been more of a success at accumulating the trappings of failure, so the chauffeured limousines, starched butlers and ironed newspapers of swanky club life look pretty damned good.
Sure, as a journalist, I could join the Foreign Correspondent's Club. But what would be the fun in that? I can go there anyway and sponge drinks from mates without the monthly shock of the bar bill arriving.
But the Hong Kong Club - now that's a different story. Imagine, in the midst of modern life's mire of political correctness, a club where you can behave like a knuckle-dragging neanderthal with complete impunity. A familiar and welcoming world full of friendly, florid faces, where you can hang your pith helmet, dribble Pimm's down your safari suit and romp around in spit and sawdust. An oasis of peace and quiet, far from the madding jackhammers, disturbed only by the muted clatter of the coolies resetting the pins in the Bowling Alley Bar and a gentle symphony of snores and flatulence.
In its heyday, the club was described as 'the paradise of the select and a temple of colonial gentility'. Well, perhaps a different select has now been selected, and they'll probably be hanging out up the road at the China Club. But no matter. It will still be paradise for the creaking relics of an evanescing empire, and I'm more than happy to join them as they hide from reality in their suet pudding shangri-la.
It is heartening to see that the club is moving with the times and has decided to allow women through its hallowed portals. Nothing wrong with that. A few fine young fillies will brighten up the place no end and spark a bit of interest in the crotchety old duffers who look like they joined the club when it opened 153 years ago and whose only tumescence is in their stiff upper lips. I say, Blatherington-Smythe, nothing wrong with a bit of slap and tickle round the billiard table - fnarr fnarr - eh, what? My only problem is that membership is by invitation only. Still, if the powers that be are kind enough to invite me in, I promise I won't tell them they're no longer the powers that be.