'We're a small, friendly club that always welcomes newcomers.’Ah yes, that well-worn line parroted by many of the groups in and around my well-to-do village in rural West Sussex, whether it’s cricket, lawn bowls or fine art. Only, to my mind, for accuracy’s sake, that introduction needs a little amending.‘We’re a dull, soul-crushing midlife clique, who resent all newcomers but have to tolerate them to boost club revenues.’Am I jaded? Perhaps. But then the prima donnas and petty politics running rife through the clubs I’ve tried to join would snuff out any newbie’s enthusiasm.Take my brief stint at West Chiltington tennis club, a debacle that always runs through my mind during the throes of Wimbledon fortnight.For all the clipped tones and twee clubhouse, this peculiar time warp was far from civilised. What started with superficial pleasantries ended with tantrums and obscenities yelled across the net.Perhaps the first red flag came on my second visit when Angela, the treasurer/social secretary, barked: ‘Are you actually joining the club or just using the facilities for free?’ (NB: I’d been told by the chairman you could have five ‘taster’ sessions before committing to an annual membership.)Then there were the murmurings prompted by my joining on a single rather than couple’s membership.‘You won’t find a husband here – they’re all married or too old anyway,’ warned one of the identikit blondes in a padded gilet and naff visor. ‘Caroline (pictured) needs to be partnered with the strongest male because she’s the weakest player,’ Angela intoned in front of everyone Perhaps the first red flag came on my second visit when Angela, the treasurer/social secretary, barked: ‘Are you actually joining the club or just using the facilities for free?’, writes Caroline Bullock (picture posed by model)Yes, the hackneyed assumption I was only there to seduce Alan or Nigel clearly prevailed, though in truth it was the very least of my problems.As a rusty player, I needed practice but there was never anyone to play with - or, to be precise, no one prepared to tear themselves away from their favoured group of pals.Instead, I was left to slum it alone with the ball machine, while the usual crowd played with their cronies on the surrounding courts, their peals of laughter a taunting soundtrack, as I wearily picked up ball after ball to reload the machine.I should add that I was on my best behaviour. I really did try to overlook the club BBQs no one invited me to, and I even feigned interest while the ladies of leisure twittered on about vineyard tours and sourdough.But inevitably things came to a head during a laughably termed Social Saturday event - a supposedly ‘non-judgemental’ session for all abilities, at which I was delivered the most humiliating of public slap-downs.‘Caroline needs to be partnered with the strongest male because she’s the weakest player,’ Angela intoned in front of everyone, as she assigned the mixed doubles teams.I confronted her, but the old charmer was resolute that it was simply a statement of fact, and she had no need to apologise.The trouble with playground-level politics and sniping is how soon it can reduce you to the same level. That’s how I ended up sarcastically clapping every bad shot she played, swatting ball after ball into the net or out of court. She finally stormed off screaming, ‘I’m not here for this nonsense’, while a full-blown row broke out between our respective supporters.Needless to say, it was time to move on.So would I fare any better at the local running club?Certainly, when I first arrived one dark, wintry evening to join a hotchpotch of shapes and ages clad in head torches and fluorescent tabards, the vibe seemed more encouraging and inclusive.In fact, people seemed friendly, welcoming and interested – trouble was they were the ones I never saw again or very occasionally.While the jogging pace was best described as steady, the overall experience was erratic, dependent on who came along and, again, blighted by the core cliques. At best, I only ever felt politely tolerated and, at worst, completely ignored.On one occasion, I found myself running alongside a group whose disappointment I’d intruded upon their private party was palpable. We plodded on with strained small talk or virtual silence. Tennis clubs can be friendly and welcoming... providing you’ve clocked up decades of membership and are a card-carrying part of the cliqueSo it’s no wonder newcomers who turned up for a try-out session rarely returned.I tried to broach this with the group’s treasurer when he lamented the declining membership and lack of volunteers, but feedback is rarely welcome. You soon learn that however struggling or depleted, no one in charge of a village club ever wants to change anything. Ever.Perhaps, on balance, I should be grateful I actually got to partake at all.A friend in a nearby village wanted to join her local art group but as yet hasn’t even been able to get through the door, such is the apathy to her enquiries.‘I got in touch months ago and was told someone would get back but it never happened, and my follow-up emails were ignored too,’ she told me.‘I finally spoke to the group founder who said she wasn’t sure the village hall could accommodate any more people. The joke is I passed by when they were having a meeting and saw five people sitting in this huge room; it’s obvious they just didn’t want anyone new there.’Of course, rural clubs wallowing in their status as the lifeblood of the community would no doubt be at pains to disagree.And it’s true they really can be friendly and welcoming... providing you’ve clocked up decades of membership and are a card-carrying part of the clique. Names have been changed