Saturday Night: Yeah, yeah. Just how long is memory lane?

WE ARE the Style Warriors, the Chelsea Pensioners of youth culture, the sad old hacks who have seen it all before. Our brass neck is legendary, our cojones like grapefruit. We cleared the ground for Youth As We Know It. You can blame us, not that we give a toss.

Having won the Battle of the Blag, hacked through No Man's Nightlife and danced across a million PR minefields, we are running out steam. A new pack is baying at our heels. Now we gather at the sites of great triumphs to reminisce over monstrous liberties we took and laugh at those we used to ridicule. On expenses, of course. This is why we sit in the Groucho Club, Dylan and Simon and I, surrounded by media drones. They are members and work for the Sunday Times magazine. You may remember that I quoted them earlier this year about the resurrection of the cocktail bar. Simon says I was right -a new one is opening in Mayfair. Christmas has come early for London's coke dealers, it seems.

Dylan would gossip about rival editors but I hate shop- talk, and say so.

Who cares about journalists, for God's sake? They look at me blankly. All right then, who cares about other journalists? 'That's better,' they say.

Sean walks over to join us, completing a rogues' gallery: four ageing lads, graduates of the Eighties style press, in particular i-D. The evening is taking shape.

Sean and I have worked for tabloids. He wore a skirt on the front page of the Sun, and I made the Star's centrefold after stripping in an Essex nightclub. All in the interests of good journalism, of course. Sean tells us he has just resigned from the Mail on Sunday's magazine, Night and Day.

'Must have been a matter of principle,' I say, solemnly. Dylan splutters a mouthful of spritzer. That's it. We're off.

'I keep thinking that's Nancy over there,' I say. Simon agrees that the resemblance is uncanny. 'Oh, so you two have something in common,' Dylan leers. I remind him never to check his facts: why break the habit of a lifetime? 'Yeah, yeah,' he laughs. 'Eat me.' And so we lurch to and fro, mauling each other with words like little boys wrestling on the carpet. If anyone's silly enough to join in, we gang up on them. Sean's girlfriend arrives to rescue him.

So where is this new flat Dylan has bought? 'Olympia,' snaps Simon. Dylan protests: it's West Kensington. 'Olympia sounds better,' says Simon. 'Has a certain Nazi overtone to it. O- lym-pi-a. Sounds like a Richard Jobson song title.'

Bingo] Eighties reference] Now we can play Eighties Trivia. Richard Jobson: your starter for 10. 'He did a book of poetry,' ventures Dylan. ' Sixteen Years of Alcohol,' Simon and I sing in jubilant stereo. Simon gets bonus points for attending the launch. 'During his Lawrence of Arabia phase,' he reminds us. 'Was he wearing that tea-towel on his head?' I ask. 'No, just bleached hair and a sunburnt face.'

'Class act,' mutters Dylan, lighting another Silk Cut Ultra Mild and sipping his iced spritzer, while Simon sips Bud from the bottle and I stir my lemonade with a straw. Without warning, Dylan and Simon start singing the 'Pina Colada' song and pretending to play the piano on the white tablecloth.

'Ah, but what's the full title?' Dylan smirks.

Before I can change the subject, they are declaiming the Ant Rap. I am beginning to feel very old indeed when I remember the ace up my sleeve.

'Adam Ant is going out with this 21-year-old girl called Keighley,' I announce. They stop in mid- whoop. 'She says he's had a thatch,' I add, pointing to the top of my head. 'No shit,' says Dylan, awestruck. Simon nods sagely. 'He was in here the other night,' says Dylan, impersonating poor Mr Ant. 'I don't have to sign in,' he says. 'I'm not going to]' Unfortunately Dylan did not hear him say, 'Don't you know who I am?' but we decide this should henceforth be part of the story. We know how to spin a yarn. We are Style Warriors, remember.

Let's see: nightclubs, drugs, girls, silly clothes - we yap about the things that put the 'hey]' in our heyday. Eventually the talk turns to Nick, the night-life casualty, the Colonel Kurtz of Style Wars. 'I saw him last week,' I tell them. 'He was rolling around Studio 94, looking like he hadn't slept in days, drinking champagne with two girls and someone he introduced as 'Mr Teabag'.'

Apparently, Mr Teabag had designed a new tea bag with drawstrings at one end -no more squishing the bag with a teaspoon against the edge of the mug. And Mr Teabag had sold the design to Tetley's, or someone like that, for pounds 2.3m. 'So then I realised why he hadn't been to bed for days, and who was paying for the champagne.'

'What a great story,' says Dylan. 'Yeah,' adds Simon, 'you should put that in your column.' 'Yeah,' says Dylan again, 'and pay us a commission for doing your thinking for you.'

Just then the waitress arrives with the bill for our drinks. 'Excuse me,' says Dylan. He takes the bill, folds it and stuffs it into my top pocket. A nice gesture, though we all know that someone else will eventually be picking up the tab for tonight's trip down memory lane. So I place the bill back on the table. 'Yeah, yeah,' I laugh. 'Eat me.'