Moneypenny's: Style. Comfort. Exclusivity. Rubble

IT was James Bond that was supposed to travel. His secretary was meant to stay at home. But Birmingham's Miss Moneypenny's don't give a toss about rigid sexual or cinematic roles and in the last three years have visited France, Ibiza, Ireland, Hong Kong, Budapest and now Beirut. Which as all we know from telly as 'war-torn Beirut', a city plagued by kidnappers, a vicious civil war, Syrian troops and Israeli bombers. Only the war ended in 1990 and right now Beirut is lit-up not by rockets but neon adverts for Mercedes, Armani, KFC, BMW and Nike. The three Ryan brothers who promote Moneypenny's - Dermot, Mick and Jim - have decided to stay at home for this trip and send fourth promoter, Lee Garrick, instead. On the plane we agree that James Bond was far cooler when Sean Connery played him. And what was interesting wasn't the bad guys he wasted but the high-life he inhabited. In the 60s if you were loaded like Bond then casinos, Saville Row suits, Martinis and Aston Martins were the stuff of glamour. "He's not so convincing nowadays, is he?" observes Garrick.

I wonder if Garrick should play Bond instead: 6ft, dreadlocked, a long leather coat, top of the range BMW and a magnet (or so it appears after watching him for several days in Beirut and later at Chuff Chuff) for semi-bare, purring girls. The world probably isn't ready for a black, Brummie Bond with a taste for designer clubwear, Roni Size and underground French house (if only all promoters played in their clubs what they play in their cars) but there's enough modern glamour in this mix to shame the current, all-too-corporate 007. When we land in Beirut the film changes from Bond to Bullitt. We're picked up in a high-speed Mercedes that races down the motorway to our hotel. A tyre blows out mid-journey and the car has to stop. Within less than three seconds another pulls up and we make a lightning transfer. We're dropped at a lush hotel, bathed in golden light with a smattering of late 18th Century sculpture for decor. We order drinks and meet the promoters, Nicole Moudabber and Maya Hajja, whose Positive Vibrations organisation have invited Moneypenny's to Beirut. Nice hotel, I offer. "It belongs to my father," purrs Nicole.

Alright. Welcome to Beverly Hills via Beirut. That night we visit a local club, Bar M, the car park stuffed with designer motors, the dancefloor dripping with Seraph, Ghost, Miu Miu and Armani. The sound system offers Lil' Louis, Nightcrawlers, liquid trance and New York deep house. Afterwards there's a party in a flat with marble floors. The crowd seem to be Beirut's club elite. And everything would be fine if it wasn't for the shocking band. The shocking band, I'd rather not name them, have been booked to play alongside Moneypenny's in Beirut. They make boshing commercial house and one of them confesses that one day he'd like to make some music with 'integrity'. They're not even a band but two musicians and two 'dancers' who don't dance but share the musicians' taste for drinking and hassling girls. They're fast becoming a liability. One of them thinks it's funny to continually thrust his crotch into the rear of Beirut promoter Maya. Eventually she cracks. "With just one phone call," she hisses, "I can make you disappear."

BEIRUT has its edges. There are still bullet-holes in the walls. And despite a massive rebuilding programme there's no shortage of buildings reduced to concrete skeletons. Nicole and Maya are sometimes shadowed by this hard-looking guy in crisp Levi's, an MA1 and thick black moustache. "He's a bodyguard," explains Maya. "We use him when we need him. It makes things easier when we have people from abroad coming over and of course they carry guns. Not that it's really needed in this country anymore but it's still the power that speaks here." It's easy to forget that Maya, despite her slight frame, trendy skate clothes and battered little BMW, has lived through two decades of war. She shows us a great time, there are no speed limits in Beirut and we shoot through the city at night drinking cold beer and jiving to the nu-energy booming through the car's sound system. It all seems so modern and so chic: speeding through a Beirut lit golden by a sunset or flaring neon. "But we used to be without electricity for months. For you maybe this is something strange," Maya offers. "We used to be without a phone and without water. I had the chance of leaving Beirut [she used to be a tennis pro] but every night I was away I couldn't sleep through worrying about my parents so I came back. Maybe I was stupid to stay... we used to be in the shelters for nights and weeks and even run away to the mountains. The area of Beirut we lived in used to receive hundreds of rockets a minute sometimes. There were snipers on the streets. It was really war, like in the movies..."

SINCE the war ended she and Nicole have thrown over 20 parties. One of the best, they recall, was outdoors in the ruins, the smoke and artifical lights falling over the wrecked city and throwing shadows over both a cathedral and a mosque: a resonant image of hope in a city once divided by warring Christian and Muslim factions. Both Nicole and Maya explain that they love Beirut and hope to establish a modern club culture in its heart. Nicole talks about being influenced by mixed/gay London clubs like DTPM. As a gay woman, she explains, she feels almost like it's a duty to live and work in Beirut, to be out and to be herself. To prove that such lives are possible here. "Now we call the Lebanon a free country," says Maya, "where you can do what you want to do. They say it is," and her voice quietens, "but it's not really. That's why we try to not go really wild because maybe the authorities wouldn't particularly like it. Because they don't know about this culture. But they're coming around to it: like all the commercials you see on TV, they use this music and people begin to relate to it and understand. Even if they just think it's part of the world of Western business. So we get thousands of people to our parties and everybody likes it. I hope it will stay smooth and easy for us."

But she only sounds partially convinced. And when she ponders the future of Lebanon there's a tension in her voice as if she knows the country could once get again get sucked into the Middle East's violent politics. For the English contingent this trip is a few days in the sun overseas. But the lives around us are being played to far more complex rules. Maybe this is why the shocking band seem so shocking. Can anyone be completely insensitive to the realities of those around them? Their performance is certainly less than spectacular. The singer exposes himself in the party's VIP area while on-stage he assumes the audience can't speak English (in fact most Lebanese seem to speak fluent English, French and Arabic) annoucing stuff like, "This song's called 'Fuck Off'. Thank you. You've all been shit." It's hard to say exactly what Moneypenny's contribute to the party. They've flown over DJ Tasty Tim, some banners and about an hour into the event produce a transvestite and two girlie dancers. Perhaps it's more about branding than anything else, another label just like BMW or Mercedes, only this global brand is a club. "I suppose it is a bit weird to see our name splashed around the world," ponders Moneypenny promoter Mick Ryan a few days later. "It is a brand now and you'll find that nearly all modern clubs are trademarked. But I suppose that could be our long term goal: Moneypenny's, the new Martini."

Moneypenny continue