“The Hurlingham is a beautiful club with great facilities,” a member told me recently. “The trouble is it’s full of arseholes.”

The beauty’s not hard to see. There are lawns that roll like thick green carpets down toward the River Thames; tennis courts like a Slim Aarons photo with extra duchesses; exquisitely manicured gardens; a private cricket pitch; Monet-grade ponds; and a neoclassical mansion to rival the White House.