You don’t become one of the world’s most exclusive private clubs without indulging in a little, well, exclusion. The Garrick Club, that colonnaded den of gouty roués down in London’s West End near Covent Garden, may well include members that span the highest reaches of the judiciary, the corridors of power, and the squarest jaws of screen and stage. But it often seems prouder still of those it has turned away. After all, as its foremost mantra decrees, “it would be better that ten unobjectionable men should be excluded, than one terrible bore should be admitted.” Hear! hear! Grumble, grumble. Pass the port.
For the most part, this better-safe-than-sorry policy has happily served its purpose. Jeremy Paxman, for example—the bloodhound-foghorn mix of British political journalism—was notoriously blackballed throughout the 90s, purportedly for being a bit hard on philandering Cabinet ministers. He was, however, ultimately made a member in 2004.
