The entrance-level floor is a red velvet-and-gold explosion.

The thick carpet almost hides heels. Everywhere is adorned with boudoir curtains and low lighting. The impression is plush, almost exactly what you'd expect, nearly a cliche.

This floor is the restaurant, with restaurant booths set up steps a little higher than ground-level and a more open section before them with three or four tables, which is where we dine, Stringfellow sitting on a gold throne chair at the head of the table.

He is a pleasant and engaging dinner host. He arrives all kisses and handshakes, cupping his ear to hear my name.

His 22-year-old fiancee, Bella, a stunning former ballet dancer, joins us in a white fur coat, stressed about a driving test and her inability to parallel park. Stringfellow ushers a constant stream of champagne . . . though he drinks still water himself . . . and scatters A-list celebrity stories like breadcrumbs to pigeons. When he leaves the table briefly to greet someone, a friend leans over and confesses "he's such a decent bloke". I find it hard to disagree, my brain spinning with the contradiction of this new reality.

Notable are the staff numbers. There are bouncers and waiters and cloakroom attendants and bathroom attendants and security personnel and waiters and guys in white jackets who run around moving chairs and guys in dark jackets who do lots of whispering, and guest-list people, and maitre d's and champagne flute topper-uppers and bar staff. There's also a 'Heavenly money' seller who walks around trading the club's currency for cash . . . Heavenly pounds being the only method of payment for a dance.

But of course, the real staff are "the girls". The only way to describe them is stunningly beautiful. Unlike other lap dancing clubs I've been to, where the overall impression is one of complete seediness, here they're not selling sex, per se, but beauty. They writhe in pairs on poles, gradually becoming topless, or they walk around eyeing custom.

Inevitably, they perform their real purpose, nude table-side dancing, where they slide up to the customer and enact a slowmotion performance dance, feeling their breasts, swivelling their bottoms as if their hips are on a pivot, coyly and briefly simulating masturbation. Their eyes do not betray the act, glaring seductively through mascara at the paralysed customer, suspended in a brief bliss. There is no contact whatsoever, and when the dance is over, and the £20 in Heavenly currency notes has been parted with, they redress matter-of-factly, and perhaps chat a bit.

A percentage of the Heavenly currency goes to the club.

Later that night, at a private gentleman's club, I meet a former dancer from Latvia, who alleges she paid Stringfellows £80 a night to work there, and left because "it wasn't worth it, so expensive". The following afternoon, Stringfellow is tightlipped. "That's our private business. Suffice to say the girls pay a house fee . . . a percentage of their Heavenly earnings, not cash earnings. It's all documented." So the cash earnings . . . the tips that customers may or may not award along with official payment . . .

are all theirs to keep. Two men who are dining at a table opposite us invite a pair of the dancers to eat and spend time with them. The next day, Stringfellow informs me that they paid the girls £1,000 each for the pleasure.

But consistent high earning doesn't happen.

"There's a myth that the girls would be earning £5,000, £10,000 and even £20,000 a night, " says Stringfellow. "That does happen, but a busy night like last night might earn them £1,000, and more realistically, they would earn about £300 a night. So 500 a night would be a genuine non-hype figure. After that, lots of things can happen.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm on the wrong side of the business, " he laughs.

The women's toilets have no lids, and I wonder whether this is a cocaine prevention measure. The bathroom attendant is teaching one stunning blonde stripper with an eastern European accent a new word, "Meeeet mahrkat.

Meeeet mahrkat."

She adjusts her tiny white dress and looks at me as I enter.

"Meeeet mahrkat.

True?" I giggle, she smiles.

Everyone smiles here. The girls smile at the wellgroomed, good-looking suited men, they smirk back, the staff grin at everyone. The only one not smiling is Stringfellow when he recounts a recent death at the club, when a drunk punter was punched by a bouncer, who last week was charged with manslaughter.

In the basement is what Stringfellow calls "the showroom". It's more hectic down here . . .

two poles pierce a mirrored floor, wrapped around them is an Asian dancer and a dropdead-gorgeous Russian, who later dances for myself and a friend, Lisa.

Lisa's last outing to a strip club resulted in her getting three phone numbers from dancers whom she had successfully persuaded to take up primary school teaching.

There are soft, leopardskin chairs everywhere, and a few areas curtained off with shiny black veils for more discreet performances. A DJ blasts chart hits, and girls roam, flirting for customers in barely-there dresses. The atmosphere is frivolous and happy, the room sparkles with money, champagne, cigarette smoke and surrealness. The Russian ruffles her dark hair and chats about her work, which she loves. It seems everyone is having fun, although later, a rather glum dancer takes up silent residence at our table, limply holding a champagne glass and looking like she'd rather be anywhere else. When a man in our group waves a Heavenly 20 in her direction, her face morphs into an Oscar-winningly believable expression of joy.

As dinner winds down after a couple of hours wading through fantastic food . . . caviar, steaks, creme brulee for the record . . . the in-house masseuse does her thing on our shoulders, necks and heads while Stringfellow details the new Irish venue, and expresses happiness at the court case outcome and praise for the judge.

In Dublin, the Parnell Street club will, he says, be "back to front" . . . the restaurant upstairs with the 'showroom' at ground level. A couple of dance floors will be added to satisfy licensing laws, and a new addition to the Stringfellow concept . . . a gay night . . . will be lined up for either Sundays or Mondays, he's not sure yet.

Like in London, Saturday nights will feature male dancers for women, and the clientele becomes 50/50. There are 100 dancers at the club in London; Stringfellow plans about 60 for the Dublin venue.

Some he'll bring over from existing clubs, and around 25 Irish dancers will be hired.

The Heavenly currency will be replicated in 30 notes.

The ire that Stringfellow has been met with from Dublin residents and other groups concerning the location of the venue doesn't seem to affect him. Instead, he tells countless stories of Irish people congratulating him wherever he goes.

Of course, there's a very valid, if very old, argument on the general morality of what he's doing. But if you're going to have a lap dancing club or a strip joint, or whatever you want to call it, you might as well have one of this high standard, with what seems like great protection provided to its staff.

There was no trouble outside and people who appear drunk or 'possibly on their way to maybe getting drunk' are turned away, more than can be said for the majority of pubs and clubs in Dublin . . . lap dancers or no lap dancers.

In the context of what else is accessible . . . seedier, sleazier venues across the city, hardcore porn available in a multitude of shops, visible prostitution . . . Stringfellow's set-up is almost tame by comparison, or dare I say it, classy in its context. The club aims to open in the next month or two. And something that I didn't think possible before this trip has sprung to mind . . . I'll be there.