Supper Club -- “It Brit” Tamsin Lonsdale’s mobile members club -- celebrated the one-year anniversary of its New York chapter last night with a gin-fueled jam at tony Haven in the east 50s. Young socialites with big rocks and posh frocks cavorted with upwardly mobile cats in crisp suits; everyone bopping along to the blaring big band music while sexy Josephine Baker look-alikes slinked among the crowd in nothing but throw-back pasties. Haven is a dapper spot, especially when both floors are packed to the rafters with people who’ve actually dressed up for the bygone era the club seeks to conjure.

The English are having a fine old time in New York -- we’re sort of like their Mexico right now, a place where you can throw around your powerful loot and loosen your tie, get away from real-world concerns back home ... just unwind a little. Witness last week’s unprecedented bubbly fest at Pink Elephant, financed by the crass, beleaguered billionaire who owns troubled English Premier League squad Newcastle. While he was being shredded back home in the press, heavyset honcho Mike Ashley dropped $220,000 on bottles of Cristal, even finding time to spread the champagne love with various bottle hawks and other moochers who reportedly knew him only as “soccer guy.” UK tabs brilliantly referred to the beneficiaries of the clueless Ashley’s largesse as “Manhattan’s shallow set.”

Fashion Week, as you may already know, is that special time of fall in New York when good friends gather to swap tales of summer fun in faraway places, amuse ourselves with skinny immigrant girls playing dress-up, drink our way through open bars, fight blonde Penn grads with powerful clipboards, and nonchalantly mention how lame the Marc Jacobs after-party was the next day. Great fun, say you? Of course. But lately, there’s been some grumbling from the normally exuberant party peoples who make the fashion magic happen. Stories of jaded fashion scenesters glumly sipping Vodka-of-the-Week & Sodas at drab lounges, whispers of widespread discontent at the tents -- a general sourness has befallen the festivities.

Artist as performance, and vice versa.

The kickoff to our new nightlife column!