London has an extensive number of private clubs; many are so exclusive that they don’t have websites and their names can only be whispered in carpeted banqueting halls. As for membership fees, these are so expensive that figures can only be ascertained via falcon from a Duke’s Castle.
The Garrick, named after the 18th Century actor and hustler, is a tad more accessible, and is based in in the heart of theatre land. Generally, open only to those of theatrical and literary standing; its walls are festooned with an exceptional Art collection. Note, that as one ascends the staircase, many eyes, from many portraits-theatrical, follow your progress. Liveried staff eye you, too – possibly to check that you don’t leave the building with a gold-framed painting stuffed up your jumper.
Among Garrick’s illustrious list of past members, was one Charles Dickens who by fits and tantrums resigned and then re-joined the club several times over. Indeed, there’s no writer more associated with London than Charles Dickens who strode through its streets, setting his characters down in all too real locations. One cannot help but ruminate, that when Charlie came to London as a boy of twelve, with an insolvent father heading for the Marshalsea Debtor’s Prison and his own promising future doomed to a blacking factory, what hope and despair filled the boy’s heart? (‘Hope’ and ‘Despair’ – good names for twins!) Ah ha! Little Charlie had no idea of the future that awaited him, of the novels he would write, the people he would meet and the places he would go; or that some 199 years later so many would gather to toast his memory.
In short, we had all met at the Garrick, in fellowship, to toast Dickens in true Pickwickian style: “To the immortal memory of the inimitable Charles Dickens.”
And so say I, “God bless us, Every One!
London Sketches – What the Dickens!
As for membership fees, these are so expensive that figures can only be obtained via Falcon from a Duke’s Castle.