Why?

As a rule, the CG avoids drinking on or near public transport (it leads to bother - as anyone unfortunate enough to share a particular ferry crossing with me and my sixth-form French-exchange group compatriots one Easter holiday in the late Eighties will testify); but then, as a rule, the CG has an enormous amount of time for anything calling itself a 'champagne bar'. Furthermore, this particular champ bar - located on the upper level of gussied-up St Pancras International - is the longest in Europe, and the hottest in town. No one's talked about anything else, since it launched, with the rest of St P International, on 14 November.

And you thought you owed it to your public to go and drink it dry?

Absolutely! A fancy bar's not a fancy bar until the Cocktail Girl's cast her eye over it, downed its signature beverages, lap-danced its bar stools and flashed her gusset at the paparazzi waiting outside.

You actually believe you have the power to anoint a joint, don't you?

Oh, gosh, well... I'd never make such a grand pronouncement about moi, obvs, but you're welcome to ... Anyway, it had been a while since I'd spent quality time with my good friends Dee the Civil Servant, and Lucy Siegle (Observer ethical columnist); and they rely on the CG to inject glamour and levity into their lives, you know.

Don't we all?

They were, needless to say, overwhelmed at the prospect of some mindless fizz and sparkle in their otherwise Spartan existences. I gave them strict instructions not to wear any hemp or mention current trends in Asbos, and off we went.

Lucky St Pancras.

My dear, 6pm on a Friday night and it was rammed! Busier than any It bar I've swung by in an awful long time. There was a significant queue outside (I had to come over all Do you know who I am? to secure me entrance) and, once inside, Europe's longest champagne bar offered nothing but leaning space, because the myriad seats were all taken. I loomed threateningly over the group monopolising an attractive-looking banquette - gave 'em the old 'off you pop now, normos' stare - but to no avail. So we three huddled round a single stool - taking it in turns to park our bottoms - and set about the cheapest fizz on offer.

Did you notice your fellow drinkers in any way?

Actually, I did! I rather liked them (even those who were lounging on seats that should rightfully be mine). Dee thought they seemed provincial, but I was impressed! A lot of them were too ridiculously Parisian, clichéd and chic for words (excellent noses, haircuts, trench coats, and airs of effortless insouciance), and the others were a good, mixed bunch of Brits. Fashion students and middle-aged divorcees off on an adventure; Sloaney Eurotrash-aspiring types; and silver foxy cashmere-clad men of mystery.

Everyone was in an exquisitely giddy and excitable mood, on account of the fact that they were drinking champagne with other giddy and excited people, in a beautiful bar, shortly before hopping on a train and buggering off to Paris for le weekend. (The Eurostar herself idles on the rails right next to the bar; swooshing off every once in a while, to be replaced by the next, which all adds.) Even if you're not about to join them en route, the atmosphere was hyper (pronounced Frenchly) contagious. I wanted nothing more than to get tipsy, have a brief fling with a French on the platform, and then zip through enregistrement, off to Paris.

Anything wrong with it?

Well, it is a touch over-subscribed, as I've mentioned, so you get bumped about by travellers. Also it's not enclosed; it's very much part of the platform and thus chilly (although I quite like keeping my coat on sometimes, it's cosy; plus the chill air keeps you the right side of horribly bladdered; plus the vaulted ceiling is gorge). The loos are an age away, downstairs and out through the main station. But that's all. Go, I tell you - even if you're not headed for Foreign. Chin chin.

· The Champagne Bar St Pancras, St Pancras International, London NW1;