If you don’t want to read a column that’s the equivalent of a town mouse slobbering all over the keyboard in a delirium of excitement, look away now. This week, I went to Shoreditch House, the latest branch of the Nick Jones members’ clubs Soho House was the first and the very best he has done yet. Apparently a man with a Midas touch, Mr Jones has been creating the hippest, most desirable, media-savvy private clubs since the early 1990s, and the bubble hasn’t burst yet (even if it’s burst for practically everybody else).
Shoreditch House shouldn’t really work the moment that Hoxton was the cutting-edge cool of London was over a few years ago, when all the artists became establishment millionaires, and there isn’t a single old warehouse left that hasn’t been transformed into a New York-style loft apartment. But, egad, this place has got everything an urban rodent could want and more. Roof-top swimming pool (heated, all year, probably not Green at all. Those tofu-munching, organic-eating media types couldn’t care less), pinball bowling alley, giant sofas, pizza, cocktails, log fires, pretty girls and handsome boys. I think I might move in.
