The club was in a grand converted tenement in the old part of town. It was a meeting place for the city's cultural elite. Members came and went all day and night. A long queue of taxis waited to take drunk members and their guests home. I passed the club a few weeks ago after a late shift at the train station, and my path crossed a taxi driver who was propping up a member as he left the club. I made way for them, and the taxi driver nodded to me and raised his eyebrows at this typical scene.

As a young man, when I was trying to make a living as a comedy writer, I wanted to join the club. I thought it would be a simple process, because the club had egalitarian founding principles and membership was open to anyone. I went to the reception late one afternoon when the staff were tidying up the debris ready for the evening. The receptionist was behind an ornate desk carved from dark wood, with a small glass screen in front of her. I introduced myself.

'Hello', she said looking up and smiling briefly. 'We'll need to run through a few brief questions,' and she tapped the screen a few times. She asked for numerous personal details, which I gave. 'Do you know any members?' I told her I did. She tapped the screen some more and some forms popped out a device on the table, which she placed in an envelope. 'Just fill these in and post them back to the address enclosed'. My forms must have been lost because the club never contacted me, and I went through the whole process several more times, before finally being told I had been added to a waiting list.

Nonetheless, I have been to the club a number of times as a guest. Some rooms were overcrowded, noisy places, full of young fashionable people. Others were plush and spacious, and the patrons were older and more elegantly dressed. It was from these dark rooms that culture dispersed through the club and out into the city through phone calls, lunch breaks and chats over garden fences.

I'd like to tell you about my friend Paul Paulson. He disliked the club more than me and had been rejected from its membership even more times. He often referred to the club members as 'the leading lights', with characteristic sarcasm.

Paul was writing his second book. Although his first book had not had mainstream success, it showed some promise and was reviewed by a few important journalists. 'It's a promising entry into the world of foodanomics', was the phrase that had caught on most. 'Paulson uses fresh thinking to shed light on food chains and how our position in them is changing – and how we are changing the food chains themselves.' That was in the City Post. Paul felt it was right on-brand for him. His new book was also economics for the masses. It was an argument that queuing culture has a causal connection with a nation's historical trade surplus. He had observed that if a country had been relatively wealthy during formative nation building eras, its citizens would queue up in an orderly fashion. He was going to meet Lawrence, one of the club's members, to discuss this book.

Paul was excited about the meeting. He had been developing phrases for some time and, he confessed when we had been drinking and became optimistic, he was quite pleased with the progress he was making. 'The courtesy people show to strangers in their wider society is not determined by arbitrary cultural factors, but by concrete economic and historical factors,' was one phrase he hoped would catch on.

'I like it,' I said tentatively, 'but do you think it might be too high brow? I can't really imagine my mother saying that', offering my mother as a typical common person.

'Contemporary queuing culture is a connection to our commonwealth', was another, which he delivered with a clever smile.

Paul was meeting Lawrence in the club bar at lunchtime. Lawrence was in his mid twenties, and was wearing a black Roman style tunic with harlequin trousers and long pointed suede shoes. He had severe thick rimmed glasses and a serious expression. Paul sat up straight when Lawrence approached. Lawrence had recently backed a number of very successful books and films. He was developing an niche in popular economics and had been put in touch with Paul by another member. He sat down opposite Paul and stared intensely at him.

'Paul. Marvellous to meet you at last. You know, I can't stay long, but really am delighted to meet you. Now, walk me through your latest work. I can't tell you how excited I am about it.' Paul felt nervous and out of breath.

'Well, I've got a few very early ideas. There are strong and original messages in there. Nothing very developed in terms of actual phrases.'

Lawrence nodded obligingly and Paul gave him some of his favourite phrases. Once he started talking in front of Lawrence, Paul felt quite unsure about them.

'They're good. With some development, I can see these going places', Lawrence said. 'How are you getting by, Paul? It's tough as an author. You need to look after yourself. I'll tell you what, I'll ask around at the office and I'm sure we can hook you up with someone from Frappe'. Frappe was a vast international consumer goods company. Lawrence had recently been appointed special popular science advisor to the junior minister for convenience food in the department for agriculture, and he was well connected among such companies. 'Work something about the Frappe Insta Quaffee Quaff 'n' Go into your last phrase and I'm sure there would be something in it for you too. You know, it wouldn't do your career harm to get a company like that behind you'.

The waiter approached them and whispered something else to Lawrence.

'Paul, I am sorry, I really have to dash. I've got a two o' clock with Jeremy LeDoop!' Lawrence stood up. 'I'll mention your work around the club and let you know how it goes', he said, hurriedly, before shaking Paul's hand and following the waiter.

LeDoop was a famous and respected documentary maker. People throughout the city would repeat LeDoop's words for months after the release of one of his documentaries. His particular interest was the city's social and demographic development. His aim, as he often said, was to hold a mirror up to society, and he had won many awards and generous stipends from government arts committees in recognition of his work's cultural value. His most recent piece of work, Do They Deserve It?, was about the city's old people. LeDoop's subjects were a couple who grew tired of their respective parents and put them in care homes. He furnished his audience's conversations with phrases like: 'I can't believe that anyone would treat another person like that', 'old people should be respected – they have so much wisdom', or, for more critical audiences, 'the way he exposes social issues is quite masterful'. Paul hated LeDoop, and if anyone ever said one of these phrases to him, Paul would refuse to give the accepted response, making the conversation very uncomfortable.

I met Paul in a cafe the morning after his meeting with Jeremy. Another of Paul's friends, Simon, who I knew vaguely, was there too. Simon is an author too. Like me, Simon had a job and did his writing in the evenings. He worked in a post office and often explained that it allowed him to collect material for his long running project, a deadpan exploration of life in a small, poor rural village, which he described as 'sensitive'. Simon wasn't having much luck with the club members, who thought it was gritty. 'People need something for a conversation' was a piece of feedback that Simon relayed to us that day. At the first pause in the discussion, Paul took the opportunity to tell us about his meeting with Lawrence. During the report Simon became fidgety and excused himself, on the basis that he had work to do on his project.

'I'll tell you what', Paul said to me, once Simon had left, 'Lawrence is an idiot, but he helped me. He has my interests in mind. Neither of us like the commercial stuff. It doesn't sit comfortably with artistic integrity. Lawrence is just trying to help me get by. He knows that if I can focus on my work I can produce some good stuff'. I nodded.

Paul talked about Lawrence at length, acknowledging the daftness of his clothing and discussing the necessity of the members' role in mediating artists and society. He explained that Lawrence is a decent man who worked in a bourgeois system, which perhaps influenced him more than he would like in his day to day dealings, but ultimately he was trying to create a world where real talent could shine. On many occasions during this lecture I wondered how I could move Paul onto a different topic, but I couldn't get a word in. Eventually a conversation among cafe patrons on a neighbouring table made Paul stop in his tracks. They were discussing some of his own work.

'Did you hear about Paul Paulson's Real Food?', a tiny woman holding a small china cup of the cafe's legendary strong tea asked her friend; a huge, nervous looking woman eating a chocolate muffin. They were sitting behind Paul and I could tell he was anxious to see them, but he stayed silent and still. Sitting opposite Paul, I could see them both clearly.

'Yes. Ah. I did think that was a great first entry into foodamonics'. The second friend didn't look too comfortable saying the words and I could see Paul tensing when she didn't get the phrase quite right. She picked up a menu off the table. The first friend persisted.

'He sheds harsh light on the relationship between food and culture!' Not getting a response, the first friend moved subtly to see over the menu and announced: 'At last, someone has shown that we need to think about our food rather than just eat it.'

At this, Paul jumped to his feet, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape and turning round to face the two women.

'You can't simply think about food,' he yelled at them, 'you need to understand it! What would you – especially you', he paused, glancing at each of them in turn, 'achieve just by thinking about food?' They stared at Paul, silent. The second friend's chewing slowed to almost nothing. 'What's the point in writing these things if you can't say them properly?'

I think Paul had more to say but by this point everyone in the cafe had stopped their chatting and the proprietor had appeared and asked Paul to leave, which he did.