The pope would scream

Up a narrow stairway, somewhere in old Soho, there existed a club which was both real and legendary. Its members and habitués were figures in the landscape of London. They revelled in its scuzzy fame. The place allowed their exemption from sainthood.

The figures are gone, or incapable of mounting the stairs.

Without them the place is a horrid green room of no perceptible charm.

Yet tonight, in a swanky house-for-hire, there is a party - one hundred pounds for entry - aimed at preserving this place.

Why?

There's nothing to preserve.  Without bacon, a fried egg is nothing. Let it go. A blue plaque will do the job far better than a bunch of sentimental socialites dragging out its physical end.

Colonise anew. Twas always thus.