“She’s a bit out of your league, if you don’t mind me saying.” This was a few years ago at the New Evaristo Club, aka Trisha’s, a basement drinking club in Soho. The man at the bar was commenting on my companion. I used to spend a lot of time in such places. Another favourite was Gerry’s in Dean Street, where I would ring the bell late at night and pretend to be a friend of a well-known crime writer. They’d reply that everyone is a friend of hers but let me in anyway. It was always full of unemployed actors who’ll tell you their stories in return for a drink, or in other words, bore you senseless and then try to ponce a drink off you.