Would you Adam and Eve it?

There’s a quote by P. G. Wodehouse that I think sums up my situation today. It goes thus:

I was left in no doubt as to the severity of the hangover when a cat stamped into the room.

Despite a substantial breakfast at the excellent Mike’s Café in Notting Hill (in my not inconsiderable experience, the severity of the hangover increases with the amount of time it’ll take you to get home), despite a long nap, despite having as many painkillers as is considered sensible for a person to have, it’s still with me. I choose to blame everyone except me. Particularly those damn bar staff, forcing me to buy Jägerbombs by having them there, all for sale and that.

Hold, let’s rewind and examine how I got into this situation in the first place. Along the way we will learn about some interesting bars in the West End.

You see, a friend is over from Germany, and therefore Becky B suggested a trip to the Adam and Eve in Fitzrovia. I was a little suspicious of the place (it describes itself as being based in “Noho” rather than Fitzrovia, a forced neologism that sets my teeth on edge) but was willing to bow to Becky’s recommendation. When I got there, the others were late. Curious, I asked the barman where the reserved table was. He said there was no such reservation. This was strange to me. I got a call a little later from Seb saying that they had arrived and had an entire area reserved. Now, okay, possibly the barman wasn’t aware.

However, the bar staff continued to fail to impress for the rest of the evening. One of them seemed very angry at my chums for showing up late – well, granted, it’s not great if we’re late for a reservation, but this fellow was complaining that they had turned people away because they were expecting us on time. Now, this was, I’m sorry to say, utter bollocks. The place was half empty, which for a bar off Oxford Street is amazing. If they were turning people away, that was stupid of them. And if it was really such a problem to keep the place reserved and empty, they could have un-reserved it. In either case, it’s not considered the done thing to berate your customers in such a fashion.

Another member of staff also complained to some of our chums having a smoke outside that the other staff had got the ashtrays messed up, which again is not the done thing in a customer service environment – it reflects badly on the venue as much as on any individual.

The place stopped serving at 10.30. This is strikingly early for a pub, particularly in the West End, but it’s their venue I suppose. Except that one of our party went up to get a round of drinks at 10.20 and was told that he couldn’t. When we went to investigate this strange state of affairs, for we had received no indication of last orders, the barman (the same one who told me they didn’t have our reservation) said, and I quote, “What’s in it for us if we do serve another round?” The correct answer to such an insolent question from a bartender is, “By god, you whelp of a diseased whore, I don’t know whether I’m more inclined to whip you for your impertinence or your master for his negligence, you will fetch me my drink or feel the toe of my boot up your backside!” but I restrained myself.

We did, with no end of complaints from the staff, get our drinks in the end. If it was really such an issue, they should simply have not served us. To serve us and complain and give us lip is quite beyond the pale. In conclusion, the Adam and Eve is shit.

Fortunately, Becky had an ace up her sleeve, and we went on to a basement cocktail bar on Rathbone Place rejoicing in the unusual name of Bourne and Hollingsworth. This was much more up my street. It’s a small venue, the preferred term I think is “intimate,” and the decor is very eclectic. More than one reviewer (and a member of our party) described it as being “like your grandmother’s house.” How they know what my grandmother’s house looks like is a mystery to me. The cocktail menu was superb, I am told by my cocktail-drinking friends. I stuck to beer myself. It did suffer from that cocktail bar disease of charging the price of a pint for a bottle, but the selection of lagers was suitably offbeat without being controversial. Oh, and kudos to the DJ for his taste in retro music.

When this place closed, Becky once more led the way – this time to an utterly charming place on Charing Cross Road, a members-only theatre bar known as the Phoenix Artist’s Club. I fell in love with the place instantly, it’s a proper boho old-school West End boozer. I’d love to say something meaningful about it, but by the end of the night I was utterly trashed and dancing like a twat. I should apologise to everyone who was forced to listen to me singing along to ‘Stars,’ as I recall my justification at the time was that “Les Miserables is fucking awesome.” 

When the bar closed, the survivors staggered through the ruins of the Gay Pride event to get a cab back to Becky’s place in Notting Hill. I forget exactly how things ended, although I did wake on the floor, staring at a bra (I don’t think it was mine). Hungover as all hell, we grabbed breakfast at Mike’s Café on Blenheim Crescent. Mike’s is an extremely old-skool place that offers a very hearty breakfast at a very reasonable price – I accessorised mine with one of their gorgeous milkshakes. With Notting Hill increasingly falling prey to chains, it’s good to know you can still get something really special.

Now I’m off back to bed. Goodnight.

I am hardcore

It’s been a funny sort of week, comrades. My grandpa’s funeral was on Tuesday, Hurricane Jack returned to the country on Friday, work has been stressy as the Dickens and in between a lot of strange things have been happening. The plan this weekend was therefore to relax as much as possible, which hasn’t quite happened.

Friday, as I say, was marked by the return of Hurricane Jack, who has been mentioned in passing in these pages before. This was celebrated in the traditional manner, i.e. helping to take care of the nation’s alcohol surplus. During the course of this evening, I was introduced to a place in Twickenham known as the Koyote bar. I suspect I was not really the target audience for the place, which is rather noisy and features scantily-clad young ladies dancing on the bar. On the plus side, it’s open late, entry is free and alcohol is at pub prices – I think most of the people in there who weren’t actively on stag nights were taking advantage of these facts, though there were one or two who seemed to be entirely there for the femininity on display. Why they’d go there when there’s a strip club down the road I don’t know.

The night ended with a trip back to Hurricane Jack’s place in Teddington, where we talked a lot of crap, ate some food and watched Thunderbirds at four in the morning. We speculated that Gordon Tracy has so little to do that he actually purposely loses his family’s possessions so that he can “rescue” them later in front of everybody. Sad really.

I eventually got to bed at six, which I believe officially means that I was up all night (Yeah! Still got it!), and strolled into Kingston via Hampton Wick, pausing only to stick my head into the vintage shop that’s opened there. No menswear, though, so continued into Kingston. I bought a really rather delicious brownie in the market, which I will pretend I did because I needed to get rid of the hangover and because I was supporting independent traders or something, but in reality it’s because I just like eating brownies. Brownie as in interestingly-textured chocolate cake, not as in young girl scout. I mean, obviously, right?

I came across a Louis Wain print in the antique market, which I would dearly love to own but can in no way justify spending money on. If any of you have enjoyed this blog so much that you’d like to give me £90 for no reason, drop me a line.

The evening was set aside for a Boys’ Night In at Shoinan’s place out in West London. Shoinan himself describes the area as being undistinguished, but I think it has a certain J. G. Ballardesque charm, but then, as I’ve described in previous entries, my taste in urban landscapes may not be entirely normal.

As well as shooting the shit, drinking a lot of beer and getting through enough Mini Cheddars to kill lesser men, we watched a few of those movies that between us, we missed out on.

Brief review:

Forgetting Sarah Marshall = Good

Scott Pilgrim vs The World = Alright, but definitely a case of style over substance.

Black Dynamite = If you have not seen this film, I order you to go away right now and watch it.

Once again, I totally failed to get to bed at a sensible time, this time finally crashing into bed at some time after seven. I am officially hardcore. What this did mean was that my original plans for today had to be curtailed somewhat – I did have to nip into town. On the way I fed my burgeoning addiction to frozen yogurt at Yog, a small chain of whimsical frozen yogurt shops that should in no way be confused with Snog, which is a small chain of whimsical frozen yogurt shops.

The Byocup

While in Fitzrovia, I saw a product known as the Byocup on sale in one of the shops. This is essentially a response to the problem of wastage that comes about as a result of the huge number of disposable coffee cups that get thrown away every day. The idea behind the Byocup is that it’s like a disposable coffee cup, except that it’s reusable. It’s made of silicon, and so won’t burn your hands when filled with hot coffee. Whereas you would throw a disposable coffee cup away, with the Byocup you simply wash it and reuse it.

Actually, I had a similar idea myself about a year ago. Although I thought that, given that the cup was supposed to be a lifetime’s possession, I could go to town a bit more on features – not slavishly adhere to the design of the disposable cup. My version was ceramic, and had the added design features of a sturdy base and a handle. A photo of the prototype may be seen on the right.

After sticking my head into Cass Art in Berwick Street, I encountered a drug dealer who tried to sell me some hash. I didn’t actually realise he was talking to me – he just sort of ambled around in a circle that happened to intersect with my path while mumbling about “hash” and “weed.” When I didn’t react, he became upset and accused me of being rude and snobbish. This means that I achieved the unusual accolade of being one of the few people against whom a drug dealer felt able to take the moral high ground. I am a “bad ass.”

Fly me to the Moon

George Orwell is, of course, best known for his political writings – Nineteen Eighty Four, Animal Farm, Down and Out in Paris and London and, of course, his Cerys Matthews biography, Homage to Catatonia. When he wasn’t busy being political, satirising the BBC or annoying T. S. Eliot, he was a man who enjoyed a good pint.

Unlike his contemporaries Dylan Thomas and Nina Hamnett, Orwell wasn’t an excessive drinker (although he was an excessive smoker, as alluded to by his essay Books vs. Cigarettes). He favoured the simple pint of beer, though never lager.

I have mentioned his once-favoured watering hole, the Fitzroy Tavern, in these pages a number of times before. However, this was not his perfect London pub. His perfect London pub was a little place called The Moon Under Water.

The Moon Under Water, despite what the photograph on the right may imply, was entirely fictional. It formed the title of a 1946 essay for the Evening Standard in which he set out his description of what he considered to be the perfect London pub.

He describes it as being two minutes from the bus stop and on a side street – this would more-or-less fit the Fitzroy, the Wheatsheaf and the dearly departed Beer House, Orwell’s three favourite hostelries. He says that despite this, the Moon is entirely free from drunks and rowdies, “even on a Saturday night.” Yr. Humble Chronicler does know of such a bar in Soho, but I’m afraid I’m keeping it to myself.

The Princess Louise

He says that the whole place should be “uncompromisingly Victorian,” but not in a fake way. I’m with him on this, partly because I hate the sleek, modern West End bars where the staff are very pretty but can’t pour a decent pint to save their lives (if you can even get a pint, that is). I know of several London pubs that are broadly Victorian in decor, including several in the West End. To my mind, the most uncompromisingly Victorian pub in London is the utterly beautiful Princess Louise in Holborn, which for many years boasted that it had last been redecorated in 1890. Then a few years ago they redecorated it again, but fortunately kept the old fixtures and fittings.

The clientele, Orwell suggested, should largely be regulars who are there for the conversation. This is interesting, as Orwell was not a naturally gregarious fellow, and often found it difficult to talk to people about anything other than politics.

The range of food he suggests should be readily available would not, I suspect, be found in any non-gastro-pub in London. Cheese, pickles, caraway seed biscuits and liver sausage sandwiches are unusual bar snacks today, and as for his suggestion of mussels, given that most pubs can’t even microwave properly, I certainly wouldn’t trust them with shellfish. A hearty lunch is a possibility, though rare due to the aforementioned dependence on the microwave (here, even the Fitzroy falls down).

Some of his criteria are simply unknown today – he considers the serving of beer in a handleless glass to be a “mistake.” Strawberry-pink china mugs, his favoured drinking vessel, are entirely alien to the modern drinker (though Orwell admits that even then they were a rarity in London).

He says that perhaps the most desirable quality of such a pub is that it should have a decent garden, although he admits that he knows of only three such pubs (none of which he names). I myself have encountered none in the City or West End. The King’s Head in Islington has a small garden, not accessible to the public, and the Dolphin in Hackney has a patio out back (at least, I think it does, I was drunk at the time). There are many more out in the suburbs.

Although Orwell’s pub was never real, the Wetherspoon’s chain of pubs was set up with his essay in mind – hence the large number of such pubs with the word “Moon” in the title, including several Moons-Under-Water. I suspect Wetherspoon’s was not what Orwell had in mind, given its straight glasses, young bar staff, lagers, fake-Victorian decor and heinous numbers of chavs. They did boast (possibly they still do, it’s a while since I’ve been in one) of having no music to allow conversation, as Orwell stipulated, but I suspect this was also to keep overheads down – no music, no royalties.

So, Orwell’s pub remains but a dream, and with pubs closing at an alarming rate, I suspect it will some day become entirely irrelevant. Which is a shame. I’d like a strawberry-pink china mug one of these days.

Further Reading

http://www.whitebeertravels.co.uk/orwell.html#moon - The full essay.

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2009/08/09/puttin-on-the-fitz/ - In which the Fitzroy is discussed.

http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2009/08/16/a-bright-cold-day-in-april/ - George Orwell, the West End and Nineteen Eighty-Four.

Soho boho hobo

When you think of the Bohemian scene in London, a few obvious names spring to mind. Oscar Wilde. Augustus John. Dylan Thomas. But to my mind, no figure sums up the era of Bohemianism in London than Nina Hamnett.

Nina was many things – artist, writer, model and raconteur. But these days, she is probably best remembered not for work but for play. Christ but that was a clumsy sentence, better come up with something better before I click “publish”.

Nina is, these days, best remembered for her unconventional lifestyle and general ability to party hard. She first became known on the artistic circuit in Paris before becoming a regular in London at the Cafe Royal in Soho, a centre of Bohemianism from the 1890s onwards which closed down only in 2008. When that became too touristy, Nina and friends made the Fitzroy Tavern their new base from 1926 onwards.

Nina was known as the Queen of Bohemia, embodying fully the hard-drinking, hard-partying, bed-hopping lifestyle that scandalised the Daily Mail-reading public. The money she made from her art would disappear as quickly as it would arrive, and she would alternate between living the high life and living in conditions of abject poverty. She had a flat on Charlotte Street where she would often find herself dining on porridge or boiled bones.

In her time, she associated with some of the great names of the twentieth century – Pablo Picasso, Jean Cocteau, Augustus John, Dylan Thomas and George Orwell were all acquaintances at one time or another. She even fell afoul of the notorious Aleister Crowley, when in her book The Laughing Torso (named after a sculpture of her that is now in the Victoria and Albert Museum) accused him of being a black magician. Crowley sued for libel and lost catastrophically. Legend has it that he placed a curse on Hamnett thereafter.

The sad reality is that what became of Nina mirrors many other Bohemians through the decades. While she had been regarded as a great artistic and literary talent in the 1920s, by the mid-1930s the artistic world had caught up with her. She was no longer cutting-edge, but distinctly average. Sales of her work fell.

In part, this was down to alcohol. She found booze dominating her life more and more, and consequently she found it harder and harder to commit to her work. Her life became fragmentary, a series of short-term relationships and dashed-off works of art.

The poet and publisher Tambi (J. Meary Tambimuttu) had warned writer Julian Maclaren-Ross, “Only beware Fitzrovia. It’s a dangerous place, you must be careful… You might get Sohoitis, you know… if you get Sohoitis, you will stay there always day and night and get no work done ever. You have been warned.” He might have had Nina in mind when he said those words.

By the mid-1930s, Nina had begun to trade off her reputation more than her art, accepting money to give guided tours of the Boho haunts of Fitzrovia. Ironically, her presence became a tourist attraction in itself, the very pubs she and her circle had come to in order to avoid the crowds becoming intolerably crowded. The Wheatsheaf and the Bricklayers’ Arms, a short distance away, were the new favourites.

It’s sometimes suggested that the Second World War was what brought an end to the West End Bohemian scene, and others have suggested that it was the welfare state. Whichever one you blame, or even if you don’t blame either, it’s fair to say that things were different in the 1940s.

Nina was by this stage a figure in terminal decline. Her artistic career was dead and her behaviour was becoming even more erratic and occasionally violent. She would spend her time going from pub to pub, collecting donations in a tin towards the cost of another drink. In exchange, she would either tell anecdotes of the good old days or, when more befuddled, threaten to expose her breasts to those who didn’t pay up. When particularly smashed, she was in the habit of vomiting into her handbag and wetting the barstool (which I suppose is one way to make sure no one steals your seat).

In December 1956, in constant pain from a botched leg operation three years earlier, Nina was at a low ebb. She was deeply upset by a radio play, It’s Long Past Time, featuring a character named Cynthia who was clearly based on her. The play, in Nina’s opinion, depicted her as a pathetic, broken-down and washed-up figure. Worse, it had been written by a friend, Bob Pocock. A few days later, she from falling out of her window on to the railings below. There is some dispute as to whether this was suicide or an unfortunate accident – either seems possible.

A party was held in her honour some days later, appropriately enough, at the Fitzrovia.

Nina Hamnett was one of those larger-than-life figures who these days would probably find herself on the cover of the celebrity gossip magazines. Despite her sad decline – a fate all too common among the Bohemians – there’s no doubting that nobody reflected and contributed to the spirit of the West End between the wars quite like Nina.

A bright, cold day in April

George Orwell’s novel Nineteen Eighty-Four might be the most influential novel of the twentieth century. Hands up everyone who’s read it? Quite a lot of you, I see. And if you haven’t read it, the chances are that, whether you’re aware of it or not, you’re familiar with at least some of the concepts. You might have watched Room 101 or Big Brother. You might have heard terms like “thought police,” “newspeak,” “thoughtcrime.” Think of the number of films and television programmes featuring a room numbered “101″ – indeed, Eric Mielke, head of the East German secret police, had his office renumbered 101. Way to miss the satire, Eric. Any article about government surveillance will invariably allude to the novel.

It’s even overshadowed Orwell’s other works. The word “Orwellian” is always used to describe anything reminiscent of Nineteen Eighty-Four. It’s not, for instance, used in reference to uppity pigs or people fighting in the Spanish Civil War.

So, safe to say it’s been pretty influential. It’s long been debated what Orwell was satirising in his novel – Communism? Fascism? Contemporary Britain? The BBC? Public schools? Orwell himself always said it was a satire on totalitarianism in general, and that the lies, paranoia and intimidation in his novel could be equally found in Communist and Fascist states.

Of course, there was a certain personal element to the novel. You may recall a while back that I mentioned Shakespeare creating a character specifically as a dig at his landlord? If not, see http://londonparticulars.wordpress.com/2009/04/08/nice-one-shakespeare/ and then act like you read it ages ago.  Similarly, Orwell was not above  airing his own personal experiences. So over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been strolling around, looking for some of the locations described in the novel.

This here is the largest and most obvious – Senate House in Bloomsbury, now UCL Administrative HQ. During the Second World War, it was the home of the Ministry of Information, basically Britain’s propaganda department. Orwell worked here during the war, as did several other writers. It was therefore the obvious inspiration for the Ministry of Truth, Winston Smith’s workplace and the propaganda wing of the Ingsoc government. The Ministries are described thus in the book:

They were enormous pyramidical structures of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously… The Ministry of Truth, Winston’s place of work, contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below.”

Senate House was, during the Second World War, the second-tallest building in London (the tallest being St Paul’s Cathedral).

The other Ministries are less obvious in their inspiration. However, Room 101, deep within the Ministry of Love, is easy to find. It was a room at BBC Headquarters.

Room 101 in the novel contained “the worst thing in the world,” the one nightmarish realisation of your deepest fears that would break you. In real life, it was a meeting room. Sadly, the original Room 101 was lost when the part of BBC HQ it was in was demolished for redevelopment. Fortunately, Rachel Whiteread took a cast of the room. Seriously, does that woman do anything other than casts? “Oh, hello Rachel Whiteread, here’s a commission, what are you going to do?” “I’m going to make a cast!”

Anyway. A couple of other locations may be found in Fitzrovia, a short walk away, where you may recall Orwell used to drink in the Fitzroy Tavern.

The alley on the right plays a brief role in the novel – it is the location of the antique shop where Winston Smith buys a diary in an act of furtive rebellion.

 

 

 

 

 

The pub you will see here to your left is the Newman Arms. This is just a street over from the Fitzroy, but is also at the end of the alley you see above. The pub features in the novel as the Prole drinking establishment where Winston encounters a senile old man who doesn’t know that a pint and half a litre actually aren’t that different in an effort to find out the truth of Big Brother’s version of history. Inside, it’s a small, wee place, but disappointingly does not feature a urinal in the corner.

 

Here’s Trafalgar Square, which by the time of the events of Nineteen Eighty-Four has been renamed Victory Square, and the statue on the column is of the Stalin-resembling and possibly propaganda-created Big Brother. Sorry the picture isn’t better, by the way, but the Square was closed off for some sort of sporting event.

Livening things up outside of the barriers was the protest seen on the left, by a gentleman who probably thought Nineteen Eighty-Four was a documentary. The Freemasons should totally get their act together, this guy’s been protesting for ages and they still haven’t silenced him.

Left: St Martin-In-The-Fields. Mentioned in a conversation between Winston Smith and Mr Charrington, the antique dealer.

“Where was St Martin’s?” said Winston.

“St Martin’s? That’s still standing. It’s in Victory Square, alongside the picture gallery. A building with a kind of a triangular porch and pillars in front, and a big flight of steps.”

Right: St Martin-In-The-Fields from the front. “Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head…”

King’s Cross, Fitzrovia, Soho

Yesterday was one of those barely-planned days out, which are always at least memorable. The original plan was to see that rather splendid-looking exhibition at the British Library, ‘Taking Liberties’. But then a couple of chums whom I very rarely see announced that they were coming down to have a look at the new steam locomotive, Tornado, which was visiting that day, and we decided to meet up.

The Northern Line wasn’t running from my part of London, so I took an alternative route via Wimbledon, Vauxhall and the Victoria Line to Kings Cross. The photo that appears either below or to the left, depending on whether I’ve got the hang of this whole “formatting” thing, is of a sign I saw on the bus. I can’t be the only person who hates any variant of “Smile! You’re on CCTV!” I mean, I hate the amount of CCTV monitoring in general, but it’s the smugness that really gets me. This one goes a step further with the line, “You are being monitored NOW by cameras fitted to this bus. So just sit back and smile!” with the unspoken addition,  ”And never forget – we’re doing you a favour by transporting you, so just behave yourselves like good little citizens!” Complete with the shit-eating grin of the yellow chap on the left.

Vauxhall is a place I feel I should explore more. This photo, I must admit, does not show the place at its best. But hey, if you want windswept, you’ll not find a better place in the West.

Tornado is quite significant, being as it is the first new main line steam locomotive constructed in Britain since 1960. Not, I should emphasise, the first steam locomotive constructed since then – there have been plenty – just the first capable of hauling a train on a regular railway. Put even more simply, the first big engine.

The platform was absolutely packed, and despite nearly falling off, we managed to get a not-too-bad view.

This here is the Tornado, on the right. Officially, flash photography is banned on Kings Cross station, but as you can see, most people were content to ignore that.

We went our separate ways after a brief pause for refreshment. I found myself struck with the desire to stay out. I just felt like making a night of it. Fortunately, I’d heard tell of a party in Soho that sounded rather good.

There was time to kill, so I did a bit of that aimless strolling around the city. I thought I’d explore Fitzrovia, which is one of those no-tube-stop places like Bloomsbury and Soho, a network of random streets. It’s named after the Fitzroy Tavern, a haunt of various artistic types. As a pretentious boho-wannabe, I felt right at home.

Random photos taken around Fitzrovia. I particularly like the pub with the turret.

The BT Tower. Interesting fact – before 1993, this building didn’t officially exist. Strange but true. Despite the fact that it’s one of the most noticeable landmarks in London, visible on a clear day from as far as Egham Hill, and the fact that it used to have a restaurant open to the public, it didn’t appear on any maps. So if you were one of those filthy Commie types planning on causing trouble, I suppose the idea was that you’d think you were hallucinating or something, I don’t know.

And so on to Soho. Soho is one of those places that I have slightly mixed feelings about. It does have some excellent bars, but by day it tends to be pretty grubby. Actually, it tends to be pretty grubby by night as well – if you can cross it alone without a stranger trying to convince you that visiting a clip joint would be a great idea that would in no way result in your being robbed and/or beaten up, well, you’re… a person who has a different experience of the place to my own. Soho used to be fields on the edge of London, and the name was originally a hunting cry – apparently something to do with the Duke of Monmouth.

The party I was due to attend was at a place called 22 Below. I normally avoid bars with a number in their name, particularly if that number is also their address. As a general rule, such bars tend to feature toilet attendants, groovy lighting and an almost total absence of anything sold in pints. Still, a party’s a party. The theme was hats, and so I decided that I’d wear a crown. It’s basically the ultimate hat. As expected, I did get asked about it quite a lot, and my stories ranged from “I mugged the King of Sweden” to “I was at this party last night, and Rowan Williams was there, and you know that guy – one sniff of the barmaid’s apron and he’s away. He just got completely trashed, and started crowning random people left, right and centre. It was a pretty mellow crowd, though, so I don’t think we’ll have a civil war.”

I left around midnight, being bored, and stumbled back to the delightful village of Colliers Wood for to sleep. If anyone can tell me what happened between the hours of 10.30 and 12.00, I would be most grateful.