Margaux, Earl's Court

English may no longer be the lingua franca in SW5. Other tongues nowadays increasingly dominate in Earl’s Court - which this address technically is, regardless of the Jo Hansford blonde estate agents' assurances that 'this is, like, super-prime South Ken, yah?' Thankfully, most resident Sloanes' French vocab runs to ‘encore du champagne, Chablis et Margaux old chap’ - all of which are available at this recently-opened dishy wee wine bar. Like the bulk of its clientele, the bar's well put-together wine list is a bon chic bon genre mix of French and Italians, with a smattering of New World and Eastern European interest. A 200-strong selection has Picpoul de Pinet, vieilles vignes Carignan, St. Chinian and Puglian Neprica all at either side of £30. Top drawer grapeage for hedge fund Henris, flush from a good week at le bureau include a 1999 Margaux at £750. A more accessible swallow from the same appellation appears at £8.50 among a range by the glass or carafe. For brunch, choose from a selection of eggy ideas - Benedict, Florentine, halloumi and heirloom tomato omelette (£11) - savoury tartines, and salad of salmon niçoise. Dishes for lunch or dinner might typically include foie gras and pear in a vanilla and port reduction en brioche (we'll brook no anti-Fortnum's bleatings here, you skanky sans culottes); porcini risotto (£13/ £18); sea bass ceviche; seared scallops with butternut squash and caramelised onion or boeuf bourgignon on creamy polenta. Over puds and Sauternes, play spot the Windsor: Harry, Wills and various court jesters cruise a strip that was also once home to Diana Spencer who resided at Coleherne Court. I blame the Versace-loving princess for the 'hood's slide from sedate Sloanedom towards something akin to Geneva-sur-Tamise. 

152 Old Brompton Road SW5 0BE 7373 5753 www.barmargaux.co.uk 

Bodo's Schloss, Kensington

As 'with-it' teenagers, my sister and I were condemned to draw lots to decide our holiday school  reciprocal visit destinations. She was dispatched to rural Austria; I to Sainte Maxime, just across the bay from swinging Saint Tropez. Hanging out with Johnny Hallyday and Bardot at Les Caves du Roy, aged 14? Bring it on! So began my love affair with France. My sibling's tales of her host, frosty Frau Frumpenlumpen (think Rosa Klebb in From Russia With Love), mandatory cold showers, not so hot local talent, and dumplings and schlag (cream) for breakfast, put me right off the first nation to sign up to Herr Hitler's world vision. Consequently, I have never set foot in the land of the Edelweiss - as immortalised by Vince Hill through the hi-fidelity speakers of my grandmother's Grundig gramophone, granted pride-of-place in its polished teak flip-top cabinet. Sloaney ponies, however, adore Austria - regularly bunking off to Kitzbuhel where, shickered on schnapps at chalet parties, they hope to do Udo the randy ski-instructor. This then, explains the decor at Bodo's Schloss, the new adventure playground from the chaps behind Mahiki - another magnet for misbehaving toff-totty and their public school boy admirers; the elite heirs to Osborne and Cameron who will one day be in charge of running (down) what's left our once great nation. Cheesier than fondue, this ersatz chalet bar/ club/ diner - all pine cladding, kitsch gingham checks and hunting lodge gubbins - is straight out of Maplin's circa Gladys Pugh. 'Tonight, campers, we'll be getting you all Matterhorny when we crown Miss Lovely Legs and Alpine Twin Peaks of 1960 in the Heidi Hi bar... located to the right of the Olympic-sized swimming pooo-ul.' The place is rammed. The boys preen, giving off that inbred air of entitlement that says they will never know the price of a pint of milk, or what it is to have to struggle to find the down-payment on a modest two-bed starter flat in the sticks ('You expect me to live in FULHAM? No way, man!') Shark-eyed trust fund Tarquins encircle the bait - lissom lasses presumably shipped in by charabanc for 'model night', as our waiter describes it. My date, a bona fide glossy mag cover girl, looks unconvinced. 'There is a big market for hand models, I suppose.' But let's not be sniffy, here. The vibe is electric - free shots every time a cowbell clangs see to that - and everyone is having a ball on a dance-floor at the back of Lonely Goatherd's cabin. I'm in no shape to throw shapes: full of strudel, und schnitzel mit noodles served by Hansel and Gretel in lederhosen and dirndls, I'm gluhweined to my chair. No matter; the party comes to me in the form of the Von Trapp Family Players' deranged cousins who dementedly bash out Village People hits on their glockenspiels and oompah band horns. Cover girl, whose mascara is running, 'hasn't laughed this much in ages.' At £8.50, cocktails are fair, but avoid the Saint Bernard, a bit of a dog if you're not big on sickly-sweet. Instead, order Ice Castle - ‘a never ending supply of our signature (vodka, peach and passion fruit) cocktail topped with up to 10 bottles of Dom Pérignon’ - sold to the coot with the Coutt's card at £5,000!  If I were him, I'd love this joint too. Bodo's is wunderbar if you’re Made In Chelsea out to get schlossed. Hip Dalston Guardianisti, however, might pray for an avalanche to hit Kensington. 

2A Kensington High Street, W8 www.bodosschloss.com

Bunga Bunga, Battersea

If you’re not mates with Charlie Gilkes and Duncan Stirling, owners of Bart’s bar and Maggie’s club, you’re just not Made in Chelsea. I join the show’s cast, along with Beatrice and Eugenie (sans Fergie/ sans hats, sadly) and Pippa Posterior's pin-up bro' James Middleton, slumming it on the Tijuana side of Battersea Bridge at the chaps’ new baby, Bunga Bunga. Described, not unreasonably, as ‘an Englishman’s Italian bar, pizzeria and karaoke’, its lurid O Sole Mio interior, festooned in holiday souvenir kitsch, is hammier than Parma. While tonight’s launch lacks the putanesca spread reportedly laid on thick at bona fide Berlusconi bashes, we’re treated to a right royal Carry On Up The Coliseum. A plumed centurion spins cheesy pop while ‘gondoliers’ frantically struggle to keep up with the cut-glass accents' insatiable thirst for Campari, Martini, Aperol and prosecco-laced Roman rinses . Cocktails to share (from £28) come in Fiat 500 and Leaning Tower of Pisa tiki mugs or are served, Cosa Nostra capo stylee, in a horse’s head - not your genuine Shergar, obviously. Masterstroke! Weighty X-Factor warbler Wagner - thankfully not in a toga - is to be our cabaret. His version of Livin' La Vida Loca sends the room into 'yah' orgiastic rapture. Obviously totally unfairly accused in the infamous Cash for Questions scandal of being being a bit too Bung-ho, Bunga guest Neil Hamilton and his formidable 'friend of Charlie's' missus add to the surreal social Caesar salad. ‘We’re off to Pizza Express,’ brays Signora Battleaxe posing like a one-trick show pony for a loitering pap out front. Judging by the thin crust minis I manage to grab, wrong move, Christine! Islington lefties would happily pay Rentokil to exterminate the punters herein, but Bunga B is not aimed at Guardianistas, its capodimonte set squarely at a SW3, 10 & 7 clientele. Gauging by the bar's early doors popularity and its hooray fan base - Harry Windsor has been in da house, should yo be tilting at a title - it looks like the guys’ gamble will (Pom)peii off (groan!)

37 Battersea Bridge Rd SW11http://www.bungabunga-london.com/

Pigalle Club, St James's : Pembroke, Earl's Court

The Pigalle Club is an ideal night cap spot: make mine a Manhattan, the perfect poison for a bijou venue straight out of 1957 Sinatra flick, Pal Joey. I swung by recently to catch an intimate gig by an on-form Boy George; the old queen upbeat despite facing a stretch at the current Queen’s pleasure, after an escort claimed the singer handcuffed him to a wall. In his heyday, George could have found countless volunteers at The Coleherne, a sleazy Earl’s Court joint. Reborn as The Coleherne Arms, new owners Realpubs - The Old Dairy, Crouch Hill and The Oxford, Kentish Town - are aiming this once notorious pit at the kind of punter whose idea of ‘heavy leather scene’ involves matching sofas from Heals. All muddy browns, chintzy wallpaper and braised pork belly, it’s as good as gastro gets in newly gay bar-free SW5.  A kitchen replaces the dark, cruisy loos where I witnessed a furry ‘hetero’ Hollywood hearthrob beg to have his nipples near twisted off by a sinister chap in chaps. Over a bottle or two of Tempranillo, we observe bemused Tom Of Finland clones strut in, their out-of-date Spartacus guide having given them a bum steer. (Update) So much clear blue does the pub want to put between it and its gay heritage, the Evening Standard recently reported that an employee took its owners to the cleaners at a tribunal on grounds of sexual discrimination. So if the pound you are about to spend is pink, think! Tonight, a blizzard of flashbulbs alerts us to the Heir and the Spare’s arrival at the adjacent Troubadour gallery. ‘Oi, Wills! Tell that old Queen not to send Georgie Boy down tomorrow.’It's a plea that will fall on deaf juggy Windsor ears.

The Pigalle Club 215 Piccadilly W1 7644 1420

The Pembroke, 261 Old Brompton Rd SW5 7373 8337 

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