A kicking night out in London

Football players are famously useless at going out. They believe it's OK to wear a skirt for the evening, they can't pass a fire extinguisher without letting it off, and regard a night as sadly wasted if it doesn't finish with a kebab, a barney, and a 'three-up' with two glamour models.

So obviously I was thoroughly looking forward to my Saturday night out with the soccerati, which began in the Box Holders Bar at White Hart Lane after a famous 4-0 victory in the cup by the Cockerels over, um, Stockport County.

I'm not sure why but, of all the London clubs, Spurs seems to attract the most sophisticated VIPs. While Arsenal can field a strongish line-up of literary middleweights, TV types and record-shop owners, and Chelsea has a respectable, but slightly superannuated squad of Sixties celebs, King's Road swingers and 'classy' Continentals, your typical Spurs box-goer seems to be a thirty-something, Hampstead-dwelling, Prada-wearing member of the Groucho Club.

Before heading Soho-wards, though, the Tottenham trendsters - almost as many females as males - stop for a drink in the large, relatively smart (for a football club) and buzzy bar provided for the sole use of box holders and their guests.

(Entry requirements: successfully sweet-talk an existing holder or, if you have the moolah, simply hire a box yourself.) And it's quite a scene, not dissimilar to a post-fashion-show party or a first night at the Hampstead Theatre. You air-kiss, review the highlights, try to meet the stars, schmooze, arrange to rendezvous, and then move on to your next destination, which in our case was Teatro, the private members' bar/public restaurant owned by ex-Arsenal and West Ham striker Lee Chapman.

I honestly don't know what these soccer stars are playing at nowadays, but the clearly understood rule always used to be that when a player hung up his boots, he bought a bar in Malaga (called Strikerz!), or a roadhouse in Surrey (also called Strikerz!), drank all the profits, and then went bust after two years. It's tradition. But Mr Chapman obviously doesn't understand how these things are done: instead, he's got all his celeb mates involved (including Becks and Posh, who dine here on occasion) and turned Teatro into a successful and slick - if slightly soulless - operation.

Disappointingly, there weren't any footballers in sight on our visit, but the cocktails and service were tiptop and the restaurant looked a swishly contemporary affair. We didn't dine there, however, because we were saving ourselves for the more promisingly named Friends, the Italian restaurant owned by footballer Roberto Di Matteo.

Surely a place with a name like that would have the signed photos, the glass case of international caps, the karaoke singing of the old-fashioned soccer player's establishment?

Not a bit of it. For a start, Di Matteo is Italian and he plays for Chelsea, a club where, notoriously, the competition among players to demonstrate social and cultural sophistication is only marginally less intense than that between Frasier and Niles Crane. Which is why it was probably unforgivable of me, on sitting down, to ask, in the manner of a proper soccer player, for 'Steak and chips, mate. None of your foreign muck for me!'

Once that incident had been glossed over, we enjoyed genuine Florentine trattoria cucina of a standard far above your typical high-street pizza joint. The pizzas were excellent, we had very good gnocchi with seafood, and some good veal. It was reasonably priced, too: the buffet - a superior offering with langoustine, Parma ham and some excellent cheeses from Italy ? was only £9.50 for a generous plateful. Friends comes highly recommended and we left for Titanic in fine fettle.