I bear my old club no ill will. I enjoyed many a cup of silver service tea as I read in a corner of its splendid drawing-room. The library often afforded me a desk on which to scribble away a spare hour or two. And from time to time, I’d lay my head to rest in one of the tastefully refurbished bedrooms. Yet, last December, after fifteen years of membership, I decided to resign from the Athenaeum.
The reasons were several. My needs had changed: I no longer had cause to use the library or stay overnight. And my inner Scotsman had noticed I could afford membership of three other clubs for only slightly more than the Athenaeum’s annual fee. But the underlying reason was disillusionment.
Four years ago, almost all my politically conservative friends became alarmed at the management and direction of the club. In response, they formed a dissident ‘1824 Group’, named after the date of the club’s founding, and invited me to sign up. Inclined to trust their judgement, I joined. But since I’d been embroiled in the culture wars over colonialism since 2017 and then in the miserable civil war at Christ Church from 2018, I lacked stamina for yet another conflict. So, I watched the turbulence at the Athenaeum from a concerned distance, without getting involved. Gradually, all of my friends abandoned the club for more congenial alternatives.
