The oldest swinger in town

Johnny Gold is a big, cuddly bear of a man. He has smiley eyes and sausage fingers and, though he likes to chat as much as anyone, he is adept at keeping secrets. This is lucky because, as it happens, he knows quite a few. "Yes, correct," he says, in a husky whisper (his voice is pure Terry-Thomas with a touch of Terry Stamp thrown in).

"For some celebrities, I am a confidant. They feel they can tell me things because I won't gossip about them later. If you want to run a nightclub, you can't gossip. So I sit there and I listen and that's it - end of story. I would never abuse that trust. Never."

Last night, perhaps to thank him for this admirable (if irritating - from my point of view) discretion, his grateful friends gathered at Tramp, the exclusive St James's disco he has run for more than 30 years, to celebrate his 70th birthday. On the guest list were Rod Stewart, Michael and Shakira Caine, Joan Collins (with her new husband, Percy), Shirley Bassey, Cilla Black, Roger Moore, George Best, Barbara Windsor and, ahem, Salman Rushdie (the writer who likes to boogie, accompanied by his friend, Marie Helvin). The Krug flowed, the glitterball span and - as ever - the paparazzi were kept safely at arm's length.

Gold is certain that, even after all these years, there is still nowhere quite like Tramp - and he hopes that will continue to be the case even when he is no longer around to act as its "face". On the other hand, London is not quite the glorious, swinging place it once was.

"There are definitely fewer characters now. It's all soap stars and footballers' wives. In the early Seventies, a whole crowd of us used to go to a Chinese restaurant called the Dumpling Inn in Soho on Sunday nights. There'd be about 14 people: Albert Finney, Tom Courtenay, Tony Newley, Richard Harris... We were always out and about.

"But that doesn't happen today. I'm not sure why. Perhaps it's because stars get so much more hassle. There's so much pressure on them, so many kiss-and-tells. They find a girl and, the next thing they know, they're reading in the papers what a lousy bonk they were.

"When American stars used to come over - like Frank Sinatra - they wanted to go out on the town. Now they stay in their hotels, trying to avoid the paparazzi. They don't want to run the risk of their wife or girlfriend seeing what they're up to."

Gold sold his interest in Tramp, which is in Jermyn Street, some five years ago. But he continues to be involved with the club, showing up at least three nights a week. He is addicted to the place. When we met for early evening drinks at The Dorchester a few days before his birthday bash, he had had only five hours' sleep.

"For some people, three-score-years-and-ten is a milestone," he says. "For me, it's a miracle. Last night, I left Tramp at two and then I got up at seven to go to Ascot. After I finish here, I'm going to go home for supper and a shower, and then I'll be back at Tramp at about 10pm.

"If you're a people person, like me, you need people. I like to look around the dancefloor, see everyone going crazy, having a good time. I enjoy it."

Good nights at the club, he says, fall into two categories: the kind when everyone is drinking Krug and spending a lot of money - and the kind when he finds himself thinking: "Wow! Look at all these famous faces".

Is there such a thing as a bad night? "Oh yes. A bad night is when no one is spending very much, and there's no one interesting in either. Luckily, those happen quite rarely." At this, he chuckles and pops another peanut in his mouth.

Gold, who was once a bookmaker, opened Tramp in 1969 with his partner, Oscar Lerman (Lerman, who is now dead, was the husband of Jackie Collins). The founder members were asked to cough up just £10.50, but the annual fee is now £500 a year - and there is still a substantial waiting list. Those who want to join must be nominated by existing members or approach Gold personally, within the wood-panelled confines of the club. "I do sometimes say no, purely out of instinct - I don't like their manner, or the way they asked me - but yes, anyone can join, you don't have to be famous."

Is there any chance he can fasttrack me? There is a momentary pause (or perhaps I am just imagining it) before he says: "Certainly, but only because I like you. And only if you promise to use it as your place of entertainment and not your place of work.

"We don't permit journalists to write about anything they might see in Tramp. Strictly no cameras are allowed and, if we see someone asking for autographs, we ask them to leave. We want people to be able to relax, not worry about flashbulbs popping in their faces."

Happily, he is just as strict with the ultra-famous: those who cause trouble are barred. "Once, I was having dinner with Keith Moon of The Who. He was a bit in his cups. He stood up for no reason at all and pulled one of our lights right out of the ceiling. I said, 'You're barred and you owe me £500 for the damage.' In those days, that was what it cost to buy a house."

Naughty Keith spent the next few days begging for a reprieve and sent his chauffeur round with the cash in an envelope. "In the end, I gave in and we settled on a ban of 48 hours. He bought me a lovely roulette wheel to make amends." Thanks to Tramp, Gold has an address book to die for - though he is keen to remind me that most of his friends were not famous when he first met them.

"There's Errol Brown, of Hot Chocolate. He's lovely. There's Michael Caine. I've known him since 1963. There's Bill Wyman. He asked my wife and me to be godparents to his youngest daughter.

"There's Shirley Bassey. She's crazy, she's wild - I love her. Rod Stewart. He's lovely. People talk about him being mean, but he and I have been friends for 30 years and he couldn't be more generous. He had a beach house in Malibu. We stayed there for three weeks and he wouldn't accept a thing."

Gold has been married to his wife, Jan, a former model, for 33 years and they have two grown-up children, both of whom work in the restaurant trade. "Oh, I used to be horrible to women when I was young," he wails. "Brutal. All I really wanted from a girl was sex. I certainly didn't want to have dinner with them."

Jan changed all that. "A friend of hers, Evie, arranged a dinner and told Jan she had a choice of date: me - or Lord Lucan. She chose me." After he got hitched, Gold learned how to give girls the brush-off - "in a subtle way" - and never failed to go home to Jan in the small hours.

However much things might have changed, he certainly isn't considering retirement. He and Jan plan to spend the next few years jetting between their new flat in Chelsea Harbour and their place in the Bahamas, and whenever he is in London, he plans to visit his favourite table at Tramp.

Will he still be a regular even when he is 95? "Not half! I don't care if I'm using a Zimmer frame. I'm never going to stop."