Caipirinha Bar at Cabana, Brixton

(one familiar face looks happy- Sandra from Gogglebox )

No sooner had the Champagne corks popped at midnight; 2016 began to shape up as an annus horribilis. "Serves you right for buying your Hogmanay fizz from The Co-Op, you cheapskate!" you snark. But at £16.99, or whatever its current offer price, Les Pionniers beats many a bigger Brut, I'll have you know. First upset: Michel Delpech, the French pop star that soundtracked my Blé En Herbe years, croaked his last. Next, the markets went into mega-meltdown mode; 'informed insider' punt on China as shonky as most everything those Asian a'holes mass produce; and then ..the unthinkable: BOWIE! Cue an emotional tsunami on a "Princess Di just died" scale; the slight difference being that Bowie's talent went far beyond rocking a frock and cleverly manipulating the media. Drawn or by coincidence; ostensibly to check out a new bar; I'm in Bowie's native Brixton, at the shrine to Ziggy (who'd surely scoff at such sentimentality) where a generation grieves the glue that held it together - the Thin White One's (truly) unique Sound and Vision. Can forty years really have passed - "sordid details following" - since this precocious show-off was excluded from prep school for showing up with a rainbow-died feather cut and a streaked face? My bronze shimmer, kingfisher blue and 'Flaming Flamingo" flash (courtesy of Miners and Rimmel from my sister's make-up bag) less The Prettiest Star, more a lad insane. The Golden Years - when I span the man at Boys Keep Swinging, a post-punk disco night I hosted at The Fridge, just yards from his makeshift memorial - dead and buried...or cremated, in his final brilliantly orchestrated act to prevent the mawkish media circus his funeral would have surely otherwise been. Tonight, I'll drown my Sorrow (his cover of The Merseys' hit, a personal favourite) and toast the Starman in caipirinhas in the Victorian bowels of Britain’s first purpose-built department store; the now-defunct  Bon Marché, the unlikely setting for a much needed blast of Brazilian sunshine in  sad SW9. At Cabana, surf boards as tables and Castrol oil drum as tub chairs - among the recycled furniture that benefits the poor of Brazil’s favelas - set the tropi-kitsch, beach bum scene for this mid-market chain’s standalone cocktail lounge. Here, the classic Rio cachaça cocktail comes in various fruity flavours along with Ipanema Iced Tea, boozy batidas, coladas and hurricanes such as Carmen Miranda and Red Parrot - juicy at £7.95 - and snacks of gloopy guacamole, salt and pepper squid, and crispy, melted cheese pastels. DJs spin electro-bossa and power samba and by 10pm, this Copacabana carnival is steaming. An excited girl is proudly showing off a selfie taken with Olly Murs. "Shame it wasn't Zayn!" sighs her friend. "Or Justin" adds another. In years to come, I imagine the girls will, like my chums, be just as inconsolable when the visionary, talented, truly original, not-at-all manufactured epoch-defining Messrs Malik and Bieber depart this mortal coil.

201 - 207 Ferndale Road SW9 8BE 7326 5760  https://cabana-brasil.com/restaurants/brixton/

The Rosebery Room, Knightsbridge

When Anna Wintour issues a decree, Planet High Fashion jumps. The petrifying praying mantis in Prada has reportedly banned her staff from staying in Dorchester Collection hotels after the group's owner, The Sultan of Brunei - a less benign dictator than US Vogue's bobbed Nancy Regan lookalike - decided to impose sharia law on his subjects. I'm with Ms W (and Stephen Fry, Ellen Degeneres et al) on this one. Lovely staff or not, I'm body-swerving the Dorchester, Bar 45, Le Meurice (the Nazis' HQ in WWII Paris) and the rest until the malevolent medievalist mullah realises that taking moolah from gay guys out to get stoned on martinis, while simultaneously stoning them at home for being gay (or any other 'crime' he might persecute in the name of religion), just isn't cricket. Hit him where it hurts; kick the c*** in the cash register, I say, and take Champagne afternoon tea (from £45) instead at the Mandarin Oriental's dashing new Rosebery Room. On the grounds that a picture speaks a thousand words (and that I'm on a tight advertising copy deadline today), I'll let the above jpeg tell you all you need to know about the decor. What I will add, is that my only beef is with the grand salon's afternoon ambient state: even Harvey Nics' dummies aren't as unforgivingly brightly spot-lit. Named after the Victorian PM, afternoon tea was last served in this 'lost' suite in the 1920s. The modern version is a marathon take on the old, with highly prized single estate teas in gorgeous china, superior rolled sandwiches, scones, macarons, cakes (followed by more cake) and chocolate truffles ceremoniously slung our way until my sugar levels are up there with 5-year old class tantrum-thrower, Taylor, on a Haribo-high rampage. Service is every bit as sweet, with more staff per punter than even a dodgy dictator would command. Come 6pm, the lighting is, mercifully, knocked down several notches (but not so low that Nuclear Wintour would remove her shades) and Champagne cocktails are the thing. Bellinis built on tequila, passion fruit, lemon and green tea, or peppermint, elderflower, cucumber white pepper and saké are standouts on an interesting list. Inch'Allah, not only the fashionisti will boycott the Brunei bigot's Park Lane pile and park their size zero posteriors on The Rosebery's pesto-tone plush; others will too.

66 Knightsbridge SW1X 7LA 7235 2000 http://www.mandarinoriental.com/london/ 

Polo Bar, The City

In brothel creepers and draped jackets, bequiffed Teddy Boys lurk malevolently on street corners. The first Mini motor car goes on sale. 20 Park Drive cigarettes cost half a crown (12p). Confirmed Bachelor Boy, Cliff, is having his first of numerous number 1 hits to follow,  and teenagers are in thrall to pointy winklepickers and beehive up-dos. The year is 1959 and an Italian family has just opened Polo (coffee) Bar to satisfy London's new-found need for frothy brown dispensed from gleaming chrome Gaggia machines. This dinky City caff with its  fab period frontage has been serving Liverpool Street ever since, long after other 'greasy spoons'  have been killed off by Satan from Seattle and similar charmless chains wherein dozy undemanding herds graze. Today, Polo and its kind are rare black sheep and if, like me, you despise English Heritage for not slapping preservation orders on the likes of the New Piccadilly Cafe, you'll applaud it survival against the odds. The gem's current owner, Philip Inzani, has had the old gaff modernised without trashing the caff's heritage in the process. Tiled benches, brick walls and 50s styling work well and its classic caff menu, with a few contemporary twists, has pretty much everything you'd want  at whatever the hour. Polo, you see, never closes. What's more, it has now, to my great delight,  contrived to secure a 24/7 liquor licence. So if you fancy eggs any style, bacon, bubble and a beer (Bethnal pale, Shoreditch blonde, Camden Hells or Hoxton stout); a bottle of Chapel Down with your fry-up; cider and a sarnie; bourbon and chocolate milkshakes and pastries; smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel with Cristal (yes, really!) at 4am with a handsome stranger you've just met at a club, Move It down to Bishopsgate and fire into this Living Doll - as Cliff sang it back in the day. Polo: it's a seriously ahem, mint hole-up!

176 Bishopsgate EC2M 4NQ 7283 4889 http://polo24hourbar.co.uk    

Sky Bar, Westminster

A uniformed ‘air hostess’ (pole dancer? Albania's Eurovision entry?) shows us into a new cocktail spot. As far as a film of grime on the windows permits, the views from Millbank Tower’s 29th floor impress . ‘Wow!’ we gush giddily for fully five minutes before, all coo-ed out and done with drooling over the giant erection that is The Shard, we turn our attention to Sky Bar itself. Membership here costs £2,500, but for twenty notes, you too can temporarily join whoever might fancy a night in an anodyne shiny, white box with op-Art furniture and colour wash lighting. I'm guessing dictators’ sons, oily-garchs and vajazzled bimbos. Lindsay Lowlife has lived the high life within and Jack Tweed  has graced the lofty pile with his stellar presence, as has his bezzie, pie and mash-faced cock of Ilford East, Mark The Only Way Is Essex Wright, I hear. ‘Ideal for a big fat gypsy wedding reception’ sniffs Milanese fashion designer friend, loftily. For my £2,500, I’d expect the bar to have tomato juice. No joy. On-the-wagon date agrees to mineral water. It’s served in a plastic beaker. Classy! I’m intrigued by Salt and ‘Peper’ cocktail, 'Crystal' and ‘Amand de Brignon’ champagne (£400). Is that supermarket own brand or do they mean Armand de Brignac? Maybe any profits can go towards a swift reprint of a menu littered with howlers? Are Sky Bar's cocktails worth £12.50 (service excluded)? Search me!  I have to put up with prosecco bellini from a bar besieged. Lukewarm, astringent, pointless, it languishes unloved. We sit contemplating ice buckets (pictured) devoid of champagne that will never come. Hold on! What's this? I set off like Usain Bolt in pursuit of a quartet comely martinis I've spotted on a waiter's tray a hundred metres distant, only to be told they are for guests at a dinner that is happening behind closed, guarded doors. Somebody says Shayne Ward is at a table. But so far as I can see, even he's not in the house tonight.  F***** off, we flee. For cocktails with killer views in cooler surroundings, take your £20 to Paramount atop Centrepoint. New Labour’s 1997 victory was celebrated at Millbank Tower. That night’s anthem occurs to me: Things Can Only Get Better. Over a bottle of cheap red at Pizza Express next door, things finally do.

29th Floor Millbank Tower, 21 - 24 Millbank SW1P 4QP 0845 500 2929

Searcys Champagne Bar, Paddington

Catching the 4.50 from Paddington circa 1957, Miss Marple would have been lucky to secure Camp coffee and a stale Bath bun at the station buffet. Fast forward to 2011, at the new Paddington Champagne Bar, the tweedy sleuth could get slewed on a bottle of vintage Dom Perignon, foie gras and macaroons for £160; roughly the same cost as a standard return to Bristol Temple Meads. Buoyed by the success of their fizz fountain at St. Pancras, caterers Searcys have homed in on another iconic terminus. Champagne and trains? It’s a fit, if you believe the marketing hype; rail travel is seen as a glamourous alternative to flying by the Jimmy Choo-choo set...and my name’s Isambard Kingdom Brunel! Have you ever sat, fuming,  outside Doncaster station 'due to a broken down train ahead of us', sweating like a glass blower's arse in a fetid carriage with no air con, gripey babies puking up on the tables, random nutters in cagoules trying to engage you in conversation and lardy overpainted Beryl Cook women on mobiles hollering 'I'm stoook ont' train, Marjorie luuuuuuv?' All this and a fifteen minute assault course to get to a buffet car that's out of everything except shortbread and chippy attitude? No thanks! Fair dos to Searcys tho'; there’s over a dozen bubbles by the flute from a not-greedy £8.50 here, Paddington Bear cocktails - sadly, without the furry one’s fave ingredient, marmalade - and traiteur-style treats. The bar, a streamlined art deco-inspired enclosure not unlike Searcys’s perma-packed outlet at Westfield, is at odds with its location, ‘The Lawn’ - some marketing clown’s hilarious euphemism for food court/ shopping mall. Visually incoherent, clattery, nerve-jangling; this hellish revenue-generating box is buzzed by the occasional pigeon. Poop on my Prada, pal, and Ma Marple will have the case of The Bird With The Wrung Neck to investigate. 

The Lawn, Paddington Station, W2  7993 3279 http://www.searcys.co.uk/paddington-champagne-bar/