The words were an iron door.

"If your name’s not on the list, you’re not coming in. Your name's not on the list, pal."

The scene was the Hoxton Bar and Kitchen, at a much-hyped gig given by the New York quartet Vampire Weekend last Thursday.

But this tiny drama could have been played out at any venue, on any night in London - for we are city of blaggers, eyeballing the fat bouncer of chance, trying to claim a place on the guestlist of life. "But I am a VIP!" we cry. "I used to go to school with the bassist!"

Blagging is a social skill every Londoner develops at an early age. I remember fondly the days, aged 16, when I could still nab a child’s ticket on the bus and purchase a four-pack of Diamond White at the offie.

Later in life, the disorganised and the poor must develop their blagging skills to compensate for being unable to snap up tickets for a hyped-up concert the moment they go on sale. Whisper it, but it's usually easier to make up some colourful lie at the venue door than it is to get up at 9am nine months in advance. Being a journalist is a help, but not essential. We are further down the pecking order than genuine creatives - and who's to know you're not really the drummer from Franz Ferdinand?

However, back in Hoxton, faced with Vampire Weekend’s impassive American promoter, my persiflage was falling flat. I wasn't getting in. And here was the thing: I really should have been on that list, having already sorted it with the band’s publicist. Or so I thought.

"You got a press card, buddy?" asked the promoter. I don‘t carry one. "A business card?" Erm. "Well how am I supposed to know you write for this ‘Evening Standard’ then?"

How indeed? Were I blagging from scratch, I might have made up a more elaborate identity - the 3rd Marquis of Rutland say - but now I was made to feel as if I was lying when I was telling the truth.

But after five minutes' of garbage, I earned enough pity/contempt to be given a hand-stamp - I think he just wanted rid of me. But my ‘plus one’, my poor friend Malcolm, who has been lingering just out of picture this whole time, was denied. We retreated outside to bid farewell.

Malcolm pretended not to be disappointed; I grumbled and wondered (not too loudly) whether I ought to skip the gig myself in solidarity. Then Malcolm had a masterstroke. The stamp was not yet dry on the back of my hand. By pressing his to mine, he achieved a perfect imprint, reversed, it is true, but who would notice in the dark?

We reconvened in the middle of the crowd just as Vampire Weekend struck up. They sounded fabulous. If there's one thing more satisfying than a successful blag, it's subterfuge.