Who goes to... The MCC

If there is a more peculiar establishment than the Marylebone Cricket Club, then I have yet to hear of it. Having been proposed and seconded, it is necessary to languish on a waiting list for a decade or so. I spent 12 years on the list avidly scanning the obituaries in the Daily Telegraph for news of lately departed members. I regret to admit that the sound of their clogs popping was music to my ears. When membership was finally secured, I set off for my first match wearing a panama hat from Lock & Co, adorned with the 'blood and custard' colours - there is a tie of the same hues, but that would be a bit much - and walked all unwitting into a new world of rules and regulations.

Not that the arcane rule book has put off such luminaries as Sir Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton and Charlie Watts - although they are probably as far away as you get from the establishment on the premises. This is the preserve of real men who have put away childish things, grandees such as Sir Paul Getty, Prince Philip, Sir Harold Pinter, John Major and Peter O'Toole. The public-school end of showbusiness is represented by Rory Bremner, Stephen Fry, Richard E Grant and Hugh Laurie. Michael Parkinson, Sir Trevor McDonald, Gordon Brown's ex-press secretary Charlie Whelan and literary agent Michael Sissons are all stalwarts. And a little bird informed me that Ainsley Harriott and the relatively youthful TV presenter Jamie Theakston are now proud card carriers.

The nerve centre is the Pavilion, commonly known as the 'Pavvy'. Only members are allowed within, and a phalanx of fierce men who would be mortified to be described as jobsworths make sure that this is so. These are the men who, should it be necessary, bar the way to Jeffrey Archer should the disgraced peer attempt an entry before the seven-year term of his suspension is up. ('He's not the sort of guy we want around,' said Michael Geliot, a member of the MCC's reform group, despite the fact that Archer has spent thousands of pounds buying turf from Lord's to relay his Cambridgeshire garden.) The Long Room is the holy of holies, lined with paintings, artefacts, and memorabilia. It is here that you can take a deep breath and get a whiff of why cricket has transcended sport to become a secular religion. You may also gain a terrific view, sight screen permitting, of the pitch through the enormous windows. What you cannot do is drink, eat or smoke, all of which activities lend themselves to the gentle art of watching a game that stretches over days. If the urge to take refreshment becomes unbearable, a short stroll leads to the Long Bar, where everything is possible except watching the cricket, the bar being situated at the back of the building.

There are other seats in the Pavilion, and these are the ones on the outside which have been made famous by a million television pictures. The only problem with these seats is that it is virtually impossible to bag one. This is because the older members, those who have cheated the Grim Reaper and not appeared in the Telegraph's obituary pages, have reserved them at dawn on the day of play, usually by means of a pugnaciously placed copy of that very same newspaper. The chap who has left the paper will not necessarily be visible when you remove it from the seat, but the moment that your posterior comes into contact with something solid will be the moment that the rightful owner of that space will come barrelling out of wherever he's been hiding and give you a ticking off.

Those who are truly in the knowmake arrangements to be a guest in one of the hospitality boxes, which are taken by the larger corporations that are still solvent, or such enthusiasts for the game as Sir Paul Getty. You do not need to be an MCC member to enter one of these boxes, although it helps to show some level of commitment, but you do have to have a valid ticket. The guardians of the entrances that lead to the staircases that allow access to these boxes are
possessed of a zeal which outstrips that of the Pavilion brigade. The idea that some yob might stumble into the middle of a lobster and caviar luncheon is anathema.

For all of the above reasons, I spend most of my time at Lord's Cricket Ground wandering around the perimeter. This is where the beer palaces are, and the snack bars that serve hamburgers every ounce as demotic as those found in the lower reaches of the football league. There are shops that sell miniature cricket balls, perfect for the American aficionado, and packets of mixed sweets sold by weight. It is around the perimeter that you will occasionally meet a famous MCC member. The film critic Barry Norman is often to be observed, as is the cricket-crazy Sir Tim Rice, who, I hear, has already put his daughter down for membership now that the fairer sex are allowed to do more than sell teacakes, a momentous decision taken in September 1998. The woman responsible for this great victory was Rachel Heyhoe-Flint, a former captain of the England ladies' cricket team. By a delicious irony, the man who fiercely vowed to second her application was none other than Jeffrey Archer. It is on the cards that she will be in the Long Room before he sees it again.

Cricket being the game it is - a feast of nuance and longueur spiked with moments of amyl nitrate - there is a very specific type of jet-setter who makes the journey to St John's Wood.

As I remarked at the outset, this is the strangest of clubs, and the normalising effects of women members upon the veterans of the claret wars will not be seen for a long time to come. In the meantime, the MCC thrives as a splendid anachronism. It is harder to get into than the England cricket team, and I will raise a glass to that - if I can get through the queue at the bar.

Marylebone Cricket Club, Lord's Cricket Ground, St John's Wood, NW8 (020 7289 1611)

Top man: Sir Tim Rice, President MCC.

Top drink: chablis or clare (outside), gin 'n' tonic or tea (inside).

Top food: Beef bap followed by fruit cake.

How to join: find two members to propose and second you, then put your feet up for at least ten years.