Billy no mates at The Goat

There is a stretch of the Fulham Road in Chelsea known as the Beach. The weekend bohemian vibe, the music, the drinks, the scantily-clad youngsters, the frisson of opportunity all remind us of Mediterranean beach parties.

The Goat In Boots was the very epicentre of the Beach under the helm of Joel Cadbury - he of the chocolate family - after he bought the place in 1994. Funnily enough, he didn't want the pub at all, he wanted the club above the pub. The vendors didn't want to sell the place piecemeal, so he ended up buying both for a mere £140,000.

This saw the beginning of a golden age for the Goat. Young Sloanes would travel from miles around to join the queue outside. It was the place to go any night of the week, and an essential weekend pit-stop before going on to either Embargo or Crazy Larry's nightclubs. Cadbury eventually sold the place for £1.5 million in 1998 and retained the management contract.

Despite a rather ignominious and short-lived effort to make a go of a 'dead duck' site in Battersea Square, Cadbury's success and fortune spiralled so stratospherically high he must have believed he could touch the stars. To add to his portfolio of premier venues such as Vingt-Quatre (the 24-hour cafe also on the Fulham Road), the Admiral Codrington in Chelsea and the Salisbury Tavern in Fulham, Cadbury then got his hands on the Groucho Club and the Third Space gym in Soho, along with Notting Hill's 192 (albeit for a relatively brief period of time).

Cadbury's departure from the Goat came at a time when many new quality operations were opening up around him. At the same time, and almost overnight, it seemed that people suddenly lost interest in the poor old Goat. You could almost see tumbleweed rolling around the floors

thatwere once packed with laughing pretty boys and girls.

Then, late last year, boards went up and builders moved in. Weeks of banging and clattering followed. There was, once again, an air of optimism surrounding the place.

My visit to the new Goat In Boots was during one lunchtime. It looked no different. A couple of young guys behind the bar looked like they'd just come out of a Nicky Clarke hair salon and forgotten to ask for their money back. They weren't offering food, so there was no point in staying.

I went back again one evening to find a giant screen showing football. There were perhaps eight people in the pub, lonely souls scattered around the place nursing their pints of Guinness.

I, too, was a lonely soul. As I sat wondering what had gone so horribly wrong, I was convinced I heard sounds of merriment seeping up though the floorboards. A shiver ran up my spine.

Don't be silly, I said to myself. They are just ghosts. Cadbury's ghosts, no doubt.