You throw yourself down into the deep, padded comfort of the chesterfield to sip the sherry which has been proferred. As you sip, deep in thought, something warm shifts on the sofa next to you. There is a grunt, an eye opens. A lazy kick to your leg is followed by a resumption of contented snoring. Peering about in the pleasant gloom you make out more snoozing forms. The place is littered with terriers, sprawled over armchairs, blocking the doors and hogging the fire.


It dawns on you that you have entered a canine parallel universe. The slightly scruffy ambiance has evolved over many years to perfectly suit the requirements of clubbable terriers in need of a pied a terre in town.


Give those portraits a closer look. Aristocratic, they certainly are but what about those ears, that fine profile?

You finally gain access to the inner sanctum of the Terriers' Club

When all hope seems lost, a congenial presence appears at your elbow. All is grace and welcome. A visitor's book is presented for your signature.....


A green baize door opens and you are ushered in.


What is it you expect? Here is a well proportioned room, well lit with a magnificent fireplace. Antique tomes line library shelves. The flickering light of the fire illuminates moiré silk walls, picking out the detail of fine paintings in their grand gilt frames. Here,two Jack Russells race across a field of burnt stubble, the snow covered peak of Helvellyn in the distance. Another is surely a Munnings, "His favourite racehorse with his stable companion, a terrier". 
Some gentleman's club this certainly is. Comfortable sofas invite you to sink down into their luxurious depths. Turkey rugs cover the floor. What a place, what an undiscovered delight!


Adjusting to the light, your eyes start to take in the detail. Are those holes in the carpet at the corners? The capacious chesterfields have bits of protruding stuffing and yes, if you had to think about it, bite marks on the armrests. You notice the portraits which flank the fireplace. Fine aristocratic portraits with noble profiles and steely imperious mien gaze down on the room. All is not as it might seem.................

Fun wearing a Fez?

While we are dawdling in the foyer ( see earlier blogs), here's a brief diversion on a subject of cultural interest.

Does the wearing of a fez mean that you're automatically having fun or are you perhaps the dictator of a small African country?

Worn by the Greek army, sported across the Ottoman Empire, the fez was taken up in the West by Victorian gents in smoking jackets.

This century has seen it adorning the heads of show biz luminaries such as Laurel and Hardy, Tommy Cooper and the marvellous Wilson, Keppel and Betty.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pkhJpr2zR8s

Furthermore, does the fez suit any dog more than the English Bull Terrier? Perhaps an Airedale................

The Terriers' Club - a Guided Tour for the Uninitiated.

Fancy a peek inside?


A discreet portal opens upon a dimly lit foyer dominated by a monumental coat of arms, lit for dramatic effect from below. 
At first glance this appears to be the traditional heraldic motif of lamb and flag worked in stone. Closer perusal reveals that here is no lamb but a rather fine English Bull Terrier. He proudly holds aloft a flag which proclaims "The Terriers' Club". Entwined twixt feet and flagpole is a (rather Christmassy) sprig of holly and underneath the whole, a curling scroll with the Latin motto picked out in gilt, " Cetera Desunt".*

The effect is at first glance rather intimidating but you slowly become aware of a convivial hubbub from the adjoining room. Mouth watering aromas indicative of a fine lunch fill the air. Politeness prevents you from barging straight in so you shuffle your feet on the black and white marble, hoping your mere presence might attract attention. You wait..... you notice a bell. It clangs sonorously and distantly, the hubbub quietens. Expectation hovers briefly, you shuffle a bit more and the hubbub resumes......


With ears strained to catch the sound of approaching footfall, the noises off divide up into recognisable sounds - the chink of china, low conversational muttering and over it all the distinctive rattle of resonant snoring.........


* here translated as "the rest are wanting". Possibly an arcane reference to the superiority of the breed?

The Terriers' Club - An Introduction.

"I'll be at my club"......


The Army and Navy, the Pall Mall, the Reform Club - sanctuaries from the milling throng. In such legendary watering holes, a chap could wolf a sizeable lunch, quaff a pint of Chablis and snooze it off in a cosy armchair.
Bertie Wooster may have found solace at the Drones' Club but there is a further destination known only (till now) to a select group of cognoscenti, the Terriers' Club.


Its origins are obscure. Some say that it has always existed, borne out by the portraits of distinguished alumni which line the walls. At least one is said to be the work of Stubbs.


The location is a well kept secret. You might imagine a turn off Lambs Conduit Street, a flight of steps, a hidden door...... Or does it exist in the St James's Street of the mind?


How to find it then? Check in here for advice or tips or better yet - catch the smell of a steak pie on the breeze and follow your nose!


N.B The motto of the Terriers' Club is here translated as "the rest are wanting".