About the only time I have induced my father, the mildest-mannered of men, to lose his temper was when I turned up to a cousin’s 21st birthday dinner at White’s wearing a three-piece tweed suit. I thought I looked dashing. He, through gritted teeth, said: “Gentlemen do not wear tweed after six o’clock.”  At the Travellers or The Turf, one could possibly get away with less formal attire, but never at White’s, which is so aloof that it does not have a website.  Its members include the Prince of Wales and most of the dukes of England. David Cameron famously resigned in 2008 after he realised that being a member of such an elitist and all-male institution might not go down very well with the Asda Mums he was trying to woo in the run-up to the General Election.  Hugh Laurie as Bertie Wooster, who belonged to the fictional club Drones (ITV/REX)  Admittedly, not all clubs are hotbeds of snobbery where jackets and ties must always be worn and business never conducted. But by their very nature they are exclusive – you invariably have to be nominated and seconded by existing members to join, which ensures only likeminded types swell the ranks. At White’s, they like any prospective member to be vouched for by 35 individuals.  Anthony Lejeune, in his 1979 book The Gentlemen’s Clubs of London, tells the story of two Guards’ officers who sank into comfortable armchairs at the Oxford and Cambridge Club (while their own club was closed). One exclaimed: “These middle-class fellows know how to do themselves well.” Slowly the elderly member opposite lowered his newspaper to reveal the Duke of Wellington, Chancellor of Oxford University.  When Lejeune wrote his book he thought it would serve as an elegy for a dying age. The idea of an all‑men’s club was no longer tenable with a woman as prime minister. The Carlton, the St James’s outpost of the Conservative Party, even made Margaret Thatcher an honorary member in 1975.  The times were changing. The new media elite of the Eighties founded their own club, The Groucho, which welcomed women as full members, while the New Labour era ushered in supposedly classless private members’ clubs such as Soho House and The Hospital Club where open necks and BlackBerries were as de rigueur as a mockney accent.  But ironically, while the membership of working-men’s clubs has collapsed from six million in the Seventies to barely two million now, in recent years many of the old‑fashioned gentlemen’s clubs have enjoyed such record waiting lists and membership numbers that Lejeune’s book was revised and reprinted in 2012 by Stacey.  The publisher has been a member of White’s for more than 50 years, says: “They are not a relic of the past at all. Catching up with old friends is a perennial joy of life. People like to be with their own kind. At a club you can let your hair down without fear of being misunderstood.”  Some have – very slowly – moved with the times. A small number allow women as members, while many have “ladies’ sides” – separate rooms reserved for associate female members, though at Boodles this is down a long corridor and through a double baize door.  Many of the less grand have encouraged young blood, through heavily discounted joining fees. This is one of the reasons the East India in particular has thrived. Some time ago it merged with the Public Schools Club, so a recommendation from your headmaster is still enough to guarantee you membership for £275 a year on leaving school – considerably cheaper than the £985 standard annual fee. Its two full-size snooker tables, along with its sports clubs, are very popular with the under-thirties.  Charlie Jacoby, the East India Club’s historian, says: “Most of the members are under 40, with a big chunk under 30. It may seem stuffy from the outside, but it is very comfortable; the food is exceptional and it is excellent value.”  This remains one of the key reasons why these clubs are still popular. The Michelin inspectors will not trouble their kitchens, but most can turn out decent meals at a fraction of the price charged by neighbouring restaurants in the West End. Where else in central London could you sit in a comfortable armchair in a gorgeous Georgian drawing room, warm your feet by the fire and sip a martini for £5?  Some have exceptional cellars, which have been carefully built up over the generations, and which have – in the past – been the main source of financial irregularities in clubland.  According to one insider, who worked in various clubs (though not the East India), it was a common occurrence for stock to go missing. “It was par for the course,” he says. “It is such a different culture in these places. They don’t have outsider shareholders or directors and, as a result, there are no real financial controls. Many people working there treated the club as their private home. Thousands of pounds worth of stock go missing in a standard year.”  Most clubs sit on huge assets – not just their wine cellars. Though the smartest ones on St James’s Street are on Crown Estate land, they tend to hold very favourable, long leaseholds. And it is understood that the East India, which boasts 60 rooms, owns the freehold on its site in St James’s – which could fetch £100 million if it were ever on the open market.  One long-standing member of the East India said: “It’s one of the richest clubs, with hefty cash reserves. The members won’t mind too much about this theft, but the staff will. They are dedicated and long-serving, which considering the club adheres to the old rule of never tipping club servants, says something about the general atmosphere there. They will be mortified if one of their number has [allegedly] run off with the swag.”
As an alleged theft rocks the historic East India Club, Harry Wallop looks   behind the baize doors and finds a world that is surprisingly alive and well