Excess all areas in society club

ISPENT the weekend in London – no, not at the Windsor gig – just reconnecting with an old schoolmate who’s back after years in Dubai. While it would be well down my list of preferred quick-break playgrounds, there’s no doubting that city’s ability to impress in the ways of excess and wealth. Well up the management ladder at the international bank, he’s worked at for years, my pal is a member of Annabel’s – a £3,500 annual perk to go with his Savile Row suit and company credit card.

One of the world’s legendary nightclubs, dating to 1963, it’s the place where Lady Diana and Sarah Ferguson once turned up dressed as policewomen, where Lord Lucan dealt his last hand of cards before disappearing, where Shirley Bassey slapped the maitre d’ on hearing the asparagus was off, and was the happy midnight haunt of just about every royal down the decades, including even Britain’s queen herself on one rare occasion. Having reopened earlier this year after a £100m (€114m) makeover, the stately Georgian townhouse in the heart of Mayfair continues to reign as the ultimate posh playground and where all the staff, especially Victor, the cashmere-suited doorman, have been drilled to remember every member’s title, plus the crucial difference between wives and mistresses. Annabel’s is the kind of place where you’ll be so busy people watching as they splash out on Royal Beluga Imperial caviar at £2,250 for 250g and £23,150 for a double magnum of Chateau Latour

1982, it’s easy to miss the stunning Picasso portrait, ‘Girl With A Red Beret’.

I strained my eyes around the Garden of Eden-themed restaurant for signs of Hugh Grant, Bryan Ferry or Kate Moss (pictured) – all regulars – but had to do instead with the expected cohorts of Russian and Middle Eastern oligarchs – escorting their pneumatically enhanced consorts, complete with platinum hair, pearl earrings and the best pouts that Harley Street can fashion.

The line from that old Dylan song – “money doesn’t talk, it swears” – never seemed more appropriate. “If you just want a decent bop on a Saturday night with some good craic,

Annabel’s is not the place – best go to Cargo or Corsica Studios for that,” my mate advised. “Clients from the States or China love this place. The original clubby English experience is always a winner in getting them to sign a contract.”

Still, there was no way I was leaving this legendary den of decadence without seeing some modicum of upper-class debauchery and headed off through the Palladian interiors in search of some naughtiness to bring home.

I found cut-glass accents, popping champagne corks and air kisses aplenty – but where was the cocaine snorting, tequila slammers and new legion of Jack Nicholson-style Lotharios behaving utterly irresponsibly? Nada.

Then, as we descended the steps to Berkeley Square at 3am, greeted by a long line of gently purring Bentleys, Maybachs and Beemers, I finally got my glimpse of depravity and moral turpitude under the dim glow of a streetlight. Two young ladies, lips locked in a serious lingering kiss that went on for minutes, while less than five feet away their two boyfriends casually smoked cigars and mused upon England’s chances in the cricket this year.

Ah yes, you’d never get that kind of thing in Ballyragget ...