It is a powerful argument, bolstered as it is by the presence within the Brigade of Guards of the second-to-none Coldstreamers. If ever Prince Charles lost his throne for talking too much and England became a Republic, the Coldstreams would be there to guard Earl Mandelson of Hartlepool in his presidential palace (much spluttering into pink gins in Geoffrey's Bar).

The cheap-and-cheerful accommodation at the back of the Club, beyond the terrace, known as the Annexe, is no more. It fetched a cool few million for the freehold. The Secretary, too, is no longer a retired officer, naval or military, looking for handy employment in town. The present man comes from hotel management, and is busy creating revenue streams that no one had thought possible before. One such experiment will do to illustrate the differing ethos of the old cavalry and the stuffier Guards. Russian money, before the Creditsky Crunchov, was awash around Mayfair. It percolated everywhere; and with the Romanovs back in favour and diamonds dripping around every new girlfriend of an oligarch, the hunt was on for prestigious venues. So the Club was "hired". Party girls flooded in, members were denied entrance for the evening.

The Club Committee held a post-mortem. "This must stop. It is lowering the tone," said the Guards. "Just like the old days," muttered the cavalrymen.

Back to Geoffrey's Bar, adorned with cartoons. All the great names are here: Osbert Lancaster, Bateman ("The Guardsman who dropped his rifle"), Giles, Jak and Marc. Sierra Leone PM seized by Army," reads a newspaper headline in one. "Forget it, Fanshawe," reads the caption, "it would never work here," said to an officer looking wistfully out of the window and thinking dire thoughts of Harold Wilson. Such plots nowadays are only cooked up in the Special Forces Club, behind Harrods; and the only coups they hatch are for Africa, not Britain.