I will always love the Times' Bob Morris. One evening at Soho House he said to me, "You're a blogger? God, blogging is totally the new DJing." I was so pissed I hadn't said it first.

Although there may be a special dispensation for the Gray Lady, perhaps I won't be seeing Mr. Morris poolside any longer: he has broken the first rule of Soho House by exposing its inner workings to any old plebe who can afford the Times. Now the English owners will cane him or evict him or possibly even make him eat their menu's pride and joy, the horrific steak sandwich. (Just what we needed, right? English food at Manhattan prices.)

Mr. Morris is terribly confused on one issue, however: he picks up the tab for his non-member guests. "Even though Soho House doesn't require you to sign for food and drink, I always pick up the tab. What else can you do when you invite friends to your club for the purpose of impressing them?" Are you insane? You get guests in, they pay your tab. I'm surprised that Mr. Morris lacks this evolved sense of Manhattan symbiosis.
It's My Soho House. Keep Out! [NYT]