Reading another essay on Bond earlier today, I came across a reference to Blades, the gentleman’s club to which M is supposed to belong. It caught my attention, so naturally I Googled it. Blades, it turns out, doesn’t actually exist, but is a creation of Fleming’s based on two real clubs, Boodle’s and Whites. Both are in St. James’s, both are over 200 years old, and both are extremely exclusive.

An idea popped into my head so delicious I can’t shake it off: what if I was to go up there and ask to go in? What would they say? would they let a drooling guy in an electric wheelchair in? Never mind that I would not be dressed properly or would not have the entrance fee, I’m just curious what they would say. After all, such places are remnants of a passed age; they are what remains of an empire upon which the sun has indeed set. They are highly conservative places where only the ‘right type of people’ are allowed entry; thus they cling to a class system and worldview which badly needs subverting. Part of me wants to go up there and demand to be let in.

Of course I’ll do no such thing. I daresay all that would happen is I’d go up there, kick up a bit of a fuss, get nowhere and come home; it would be a complete waste of time. I’d just embarrass myself. Yet the idea persists: what if, for some reason, they let me in? What if, to avoid causing controversy, they lend me a blazer, ask me to wipe my chin, and usher me quietly through the door? Think what an adventure that would be; think what I’d find in there; think of the exotic food and drink perhaps I could get a martini. Think of the mess I could make! What an idea! that’s it – I’m going clubbing.