Not only have I finally visited the Press Club, congratulate me, I’ve lived to tell the tale. I crossed its unprepossessing portals with some trepidation: I’ve been to bastions of the fourth estate elsewhere and believe me, they’re scary.

This particular occasion was supposed to be a sad one. The demise of a colleague. That is, she hadn’t actually died or anything, she was merely quitting the organisation, but we loyalists treat each departure as a death, arranging funerals, rending our raiment and generally consigning the traitor to oblivion.

As it turned out, it was a blast. Positively an oompahpah. The fore-mentioned person, who should have, in all political rectitude, lain still in a casket with her eyes shut and her palms sweetly crossed over her chest in prayer (this was a wake, after all), chose instead to burst ? with no preamble ? into song.

But that’s the Press Club atmosphere for you. One of unalloyed jollification. Fuelled with a just a little ? say, a barrel or two at the most ? of beer. And snacks you’ve never heard of. (I mean, capsicum pakora?) Bloody good, too.

A word of warning would not be before its time. In the general feasting, remember you may have need of the toilet, especially to upchuck (a night at this hub of intellect which does not end with everyone staggering across the dhurrie, filled to the eyeballs, and endeavouring to make room for more, is a night not considered well-spent). I’d been cautioned about the state of the loo but that was an insufficient obstacle (I was allowed to vomit freely on the lawn, wasn’t I?) to joy.

My colleague’s singing, by the way, brought on uninvited duets from the next table, compliments from the staff (cordially acknowledged), advice on voice training and a surprise number from yet another colleague we’d never suspected of possessing a voice with soul. (Neither, I believe, had she, but that’s the Press Club for you all over again.)

In fact, with all that untrammelled singing, short of everyone lining up Cossack dance-style, going hey-hey-hey-heyee in between squats, everywhere was the spirit of the fiddler on the roof.

And the gossip. Coo. Reputations ? political, business or frankly personal ? are, I’m told, ritually killed each evening, and enjoy a joyous rebirth the next. Jobs are generously offered ? even thrust upon ? to be withdrawn at the subsequent meeting with a cold, unrecognising stare.

As I said, such fun.

I hope no one thinks I’m doing a PR job here. Or getting a cut somewhere. The Press Club is not where I would choose to entertain the man of my dreams, so I’m not looking for membership either. But next Saturday, I’m going to get me someone to take me there.