Sunday, 6 July 2008

We will rock you this ain't

The first six months of this year has once again seen the theatres and galleries of London spoilt for choice for quality entertainment. But many of the real gems are the ones that pass the everyday radar of what is associated with main steam entertainment, and hide in the dark alley ways of London town. In a time when most theatre is based on the songs of an old band put together to a weak plot line written by a two faced old commie, its refreshing to find some brilliant shows.

At the beginning of this year we were graced with another fine show by the Punch drunk company which deservedly won a Critics' Circle Award last year for Faust, a stunning performance-art piece that took place across five floors of an abandoned document depository in darkest Wapping – this year they were back to reveal yet more of their twisted dramatic imagination.

They took over Edward Mountford's spookily labyrinthine 1891 municipal building, more recently an arts centre (BAC in Battersea) and turned the whole place into a thrilling, chilling celebration of the tormented genius of Edgar Allan Poe.

On arrival (in evening dress, preferably), you are issued with a carnival mask and a coin with which you will later be able to buy a cloak. You are then advised to set off, alone and masked, to explore.
There are no guides to tell you where to go, no way of knowing what you will find, see, touch, smell, hear or taste. journeys through dark corridors, and up and down steep back staircases, pushing nervously at doors to discover where they will lead. Sometimes you encounter an empty room, designed in meticulously detailed 19th-century style, perhaps with a coal fire burning, or a recently rumpled bed.

The whole of the BAC is transformed. Not just the rooms you'd recognise if you're familiar with the centre but all of it. You go up stairs, into basements and into really scary attics. You won't recognise any of this space. There is action in most of the rooms, be it a dressing room of a theatre, or a coffin hidden in a basement .Even when there isn't anything going on, you'll find yourself wondering around looking at all of the amazing props. Every inch of every room is covered.

At other moments you find yourself plunged right into the heart of some vivid drama of perverse infatuation or overwhelming despair.

Throughout the promenade, you discover splintered fragments of Poe's dark short stories – a heart being removed from a horribly frail old man as he sleeps, a desperate bridal night that turns into one of the most disturbing erotic ballets I have ever seen, a dinner party populated only by the insane.

Because you are masked, you feel as though you have been granted a Harry Potter cloak of invisibility. There's no embarrassment about getting up close to the performers, or of following them to wherever they lead you next.The silence is sometimes eerie, as is having no interaction with the other audience members. You're totally on your own.
At one stage, I suddenly found myself standing in the wings of a music hall, but it took me another half-hour to find the actual entrance to the red-velvet palace of varieties, where one is allowed to remove one's mask, have a drink of Absinthe and watch Victorian vaudeville acts of mind readers and dance hall ditties, before venturing off for further horrors of immurement, murder and marital strife.Among the highlights of my trip were a fabulously sinister opium den and an encounter with an exceedingly alluring female pharmacist who drew me to her and whispered intimately in my ear: "Only the saved pass through these doors; this is for your protection," as she pressed crushed herbs into the palm of my hand.

For over two hours time had stopped and I had been transported into a different era where the buzz of modern Leicester square is a million miles away.The disturbing finale perfectly timed brings everyone into the ballroom,you feel like you have been dropped into the ball scene of Eyes Wide Shut, crossed with the chaotic finally of Lord of the flies.

Move over Ben Elton you hypocritical twat, for true genius.

For those that missed out, when they have their next production ...Go Go Go.

Saturday, 24 May 2008

And a pale horse rode in .......

As April, May and June mixed into one month of work,rain,work,rain. We look forward and hope to another glorious summer in this great city of ours. As housing prices drop, and the pound in our pocket slowly terns into a Euro, we great the coming of summer with a human sacrifice to the gods, as the slowly decomposing body of Ken Livingstone is dragged off the steps of city hall, we herald in the dawning of a new age, the coming of a golden child,as prophesied on the back of men's toilet walls at Charring Cross Station. A time when a large child like man with locks of gold will bring happiness and prosperity to the land, and tern the whole of London into a giant theme park for himself. Of course that man is Boris Johnson, I didn't vote for him, but my vote does not count in the democratic system we have in place. Only the chosen ones have a voice in London, these being the London bus drivers,white van men and the ancient order of the black cab. As people voted with their personal wants rather than their minds, we hope and pray that B.J. will answer our every needs. We look forward to the return of the Route Master, this time with its own MacDonald counter inside to satisfy the hunger of the late night revellers. The scraping of the congestion charge, and the construction of the new M25 V.2, straight through Piccadilly. 4 x 4's will become compulsory and every child in London at the age of 5 will be given there own. St Patricks day and the Notinghill Carnival will be scrapped for Toffs day, where all School tie boys will have flout of their own, starting from Eaton and finishing off at Henley. Urban foxing hunting will become the new craze ( too many of the fuckers if you ask me) and be added into the 2012 Olympics, which will be moved from the East End to Chelsea, as its a ghastly place.

I mean it can't be a bad thing can it, America has had an idiot in power for 8 years and it hasn't done them any harm. At least Boris can speak.

So goodbye the red flag and hello blue skies. We've seen it all before and been here a million times, the rich will get richer and the poor will always have Sky sports, so who cares.

On another subject I will be running a London half marathon ( not for mayor..too late, maybe next time ) on behalf of Tress for London, so please sponsor me. Tress for London believe that if the quota of trees to people becomes lower, then one street thug should be replaced with a tree, his/her body is then used as fertilizer for the tree and everyone is happy.

If you want to sponsor me link below and think safer and greener streets.Full Blog very soon.

Thursday, 20 March 2008

let me introduce you to Mr Hudson who is in the Library

Let me introduce you to these fine chaps, saw them at Glastonbury last year. Originally from Birmingham, but now based in the smoke. They have been seen in the Kentish town area, plus the other day I noticed some graffiti that was based around the band near the bottom end of Kentish Town. Whats interesting about these guys is their fusion of acoustic with hip/hop - ska and dreamic melodies. They remind me of a contemporary version Of The Specials. A fusion is created when urban sounds mix with classic London dance hall music. Other great bands that achieved this where The kinks, The Small Faces, Blur and even Madness. All perfectly epitomise the different cultural influences that make London. You can't just say London sound is indie, hip-hop or drum and bass , its a mixture of all these things and sometimes none depending on where you live and what background you come from. Now and again some bands cross fertilise these genres and create a sound that is unique, but not always instantly likable. More recently bands like Frank Ferdinand, The Libertines and the Kaiser Chiefs have taken this Victorian style theatrics and converted them into modern ditties all creating musical vignettes that put you right into the soul of London.


Friday, 22 February 2008

A tale of Two cities.

Just added a link to a blog, which you could say is The Victorian Gentlemans sister blog. Run by a bunch of creative guys who work in the fashion industry and based in New York. Whats interesting about these guys is they base all their designs on late 1800s early 1900s styles but with a modern twist.Their website and blog also has some interesting bits about New York. For those interested the label is called Barking Irons. I raise my hat to you fine fellows, and wish a hand of friendship and a glass of port from across the pond so to speak.

Lord Monty

Sunday, 17 February 2008

Bleeding hearts ...!

Valentines day has been and gone and once again the true winner in this despicable of days is Hallmarks, who invented the day in the first place, so after the rush of pink Cava and and red roses, I decided to dedicate the blog to a location in London which is also associated with the heart. But in a far more gruesome way. The place in question is the cobbled courtyard Bleeding Heart Yard, Hatton Garden, near Farringdon.

The story does share something with Valentines day as both end up with someone being bled dry of everything they have including any self dignity, the difference is that every year it is mainly men that are the victim of this crime while the legend of Bleeding heart yard has a woman having to pay the final price, now that what i call equality.

Legend has it that the courtyard's name commemorates the murder of Lady Elizabeth Hatton, second wife of Sir William Hatton, whose family used to own the area. It is said that her body was found here on January 27, 1626, torn limb from limb, but with her heart still pumping blood. Trey Philpotts of the University of Delaware writes that the courtyard is, in fact, named after a sign dating back to the Reformation that was diplayed on a pub called the Bleeding Heart in nearby Charles Street. The sign showed the heart of the Virgin Mary pierced by five swords. Thus making the Bleeding Heart story one of Londons earliest urban legends

A French restaurant called The Bleeding Heart now occupies a number of the buildings in the courtyard. Which by the way serves great food and I recommend to anybody who is visiting London.

Taken from the shady old ladys guide to london - Lady Elizabeth Hatton was the toast of 17th Century London society. The widowed daughter-in-law of the famous merchant Sir Christopher Hatton (one-time consort of Queen Elizabeth 1), Lady Elizabeth was young, beautiful and very wealthy. Her suitors were many and varied, and included a leading London Bishop and a prominent European Ambassador. Invitations to her soirees in Hatton Garden were much sought after.

Her Annual Winter Ball, on January 26, 1662, was one of the highlights of the London social season. Halfway through the evening's festivities, the doors to Lady Hatton's grand ballroom were flung open. In strode a swarthy gentleman, slightly hunched of shoulder, with a clawed right hand. He took her by the hand, danced her once around the room and out through the double doors into the garden. A buzz of gossip arose. Would Lady Elizabeth and the European Ambassador (for it was he) kiss and make up, or would she return alone? Neither was to be. The next morning her body was found in the cobblestone courtyard torn limb from limb, with her heart still pumping blood onto the cobblestones. And from thenceforth the yard was to be known as The Bleeding Heart Yard.

Charles Dickens knew Bleeding Heart well. In Little Dorritt, the Plornish family lived in a house in Bleeding Heart Yard. The more practical of the Yards inmates abided by the tradition of the murder.

[It was] a place much changed in feature and in fortune, yet with some relish of ancient greatness about it. Two or three mighty stacks of chimneys, and a few large dark rooms which had escaped being walled and subdivided out of the recognition of their old proportions, gave the Yard a character. It was inhabited by poor people, who set up their rest among its faded glories, as Arabs of the desert pitch their tents among the fallen stones of the Pyramids; but there was a family sentimental feeling prevalent in the Yard, that it had a character.

But he went on to document another Bleeding Heart story: The gentler and more imaginative inhabitants, including the whole of the tender sex, were loyal to the legend of a young lady imprisoned in her own chamber by a cruel father for remaining true to her own true lover but it was objected to by the murderous party that this was the invention of a spinster and romantic, still lodging in the Yard.

Before Dickens, the courtyard was best known for its appearance in R.H. Barham's The Ingoldsby Legends, a collection of poems and stories first published in Bentley's Miscellany beginning in 1837.

In one of the stories, The House-Warming: A Legend Of Bleeding-Heart Yard, Lady Hatton, wife of Sir Christopher Hatton, makes a pact with the devil to secure wealth, position, and a mansion in Holburn. During the housewarming of the mansion, the devil dances with her, then tears out her heart, which is found, still beating, in the courtyard the next morning.[1] It is from this legend, together with a case of mistaken identity, that the myth of Lady Elizabeth Hatton's murder — wife, not of Christopher, but of William Hatton — was born.

Of poor Lady Hatton, it's needless to say,
No traces have ever been found to this day,
Or the terrible dancer who whisk'd her away;
But out in the court-yard -- and just in that part
Where the pump stands -- lay bleeding a LARGE HUMAN HEART!
And sundry large stains
Of blood and of brains,
Which had not been wash'd off notwithstanding the rains,
Appear'd on the wood, and the handle, and chains,
As if somebody's head with a very hard thump,
Had been recently knock'd on the top of the pump.
That pump is no more!-- that of which you've just read,--
But they've put a new iron one up in its stead,
And still, it is said,
At that 'small hour' so dread,
When all sober people are cosey in bed,
There may sometimes be seen on a moonshiny night,
Standing close by the new pump, a Lady in White,
Who keeps pumping away with, 'twould seem, all her might,
Though never a drop comes her pains to requite!
And hence many passengers now are debarr'd
From proceeding at nightfall through Bleeding Heart Yard!

Happy Valentines day ...

Lord Monty

Tuesday, 5 February 2008

Members Only...

When I first started my blog page my two main objectives was to show a different side to this great capital of ours and to make a virtual gentleman's club (where of course ladies are allowed to join), in which one can feel that they are part of a club where one can have a fine glass of brandy and talk crap.

I would like to bring up a point that the term gentlemen's club is now unfortunately used to describe a place where young ladies who can only buy clothes which are too big for them visit: These ladies then commence to dance, sometimes around a rather polished metallic pole. The XL sized garments do not hang in the proper manner that is accustomed to these ladies and after a few seconds of the Charleston they find their clothes slip off and fall to the floor. These clubs are frequented by gentlemen whom feeling pity for these fair dames, offer money so they can buy themselves more proper attire, unfortunately for these unfortunate creatures the only place to put this money is in their garters. The men go home in floods of tears, wishing there was more they could have done.

The gentleman's clubs I speak of are not such places.

Ever since I came to London over 12 years ago now, I always had an interest in these ancient hidden members clubs and what lay behind the door policy. I was lucky enough to have visited quite a few and be a member of some. What always interested me was the way that each club would attract a different kind of person, it was like being in adult gang with people that are interested in the same things you are, also a great place for networking and being on the pulse of your industry. Many historic moments have occurred in our cities london clubs,it may be remembered that Lord Queens-berry s incriminating note accusing Wilde of "posing as a somdomite[sic.]" was left for him at the Albermarle Club. While Phileas Fogg started his journey from the Reform Club, went around the world and returned to the same club in 80 days.

Before I go any further let me give you a brief history of the 'gentleman's club'.


The Clubs had their origin in the old Coffee Houses which came into existence as a result of the introduction of coffee into England from Turkey, by David Saunders, in the year 1652. So rapid was the success of the new beverage, so universally was it found to lend itself to social gatherings, to promote conversation, and alas to afford opportunities for gambling, that by the middle of Queen Anne's reign the number of Coffee Houses in London and Westminster had grown to several hundreds, some imaginative estimates putting the figure at 2,000. Hence arose the clubs in our modern sense; houses for the chosen few, where men of common tastes and of one class might meet together. In the fashionable neighborhoods the indiscriminate type of Coffee Houses almost disappeared, giving place to houses which adopted a political or party colour of their own. The nineteenth century was the age of clubs, each with its own building resembling a stately mansion where gentlemen smoked, drank, ate, read (in libraries or news rooms), gambled, played billiards, and socialized among their peers. Members were elected (or not--that is, blackballed) and clubs members often had common political or recreational interests. Among the political clubs in the Victorian period were the Reform Club, an institution of the Liberals with a name relating to the famous Reform Act of 1832, the Conservative, and the Carlton founded by the Duke of Wellington in 1832. Others clubs were for members of the universities (The Oxford and Cambridge University Clubs), for automobile fanciers (The Royal Automobile Club), for mountaineers, for members of the Army and Navy (The Army and Navy Club), for travelers who had been more than 500 miles from London (The Traveler's Club), and for artists, writers, and scientists and their patrons (Athenaeum Club). It was not uncommon for a gentleman to have membership in more than one club. Women were of course not admitted, although by the end of the nineteenth century there were some clubs for women. Waiting lists were long, even for males. These large clubs were most often designed in the classical style, even though much Victorian architecture was inspired by Gothic precedents. Most had a number of large rooms: library, lounge, dining room, smoking room, billiard room, and card room. In the second half of the century some provided bedrooms for members who lived outside the city and preferred to stay in the club rather than a commercial hotel. Many had outstanding libraries. The clubs were generally furnished in an austere "bachelor" style, foregoing the "feminine" clutter of the typical Victorian house. Its worth pointing out that many of these clubs didn't judge you by the colour of your skin, but more so on your up bringing. It was quite common to see an Asian or Black gentlemen frequenting the halls of these establishment. But woman 'No'.

Many of these clubs still exist with the same house rules that date back over 250 years ago. But in the eighties at the peak of Thatcherite consumer Britain a new wave of private members clubs opened. These clubs still had the impossibly strict membership rules, but with the difference that they were not solely for men of the upper classes. One such club was the Groucho Club on Dean Street which opened in 1985 as "the antidote to the traditional club." In this spirit, the club was named for Groucho Marx because of his famous remark that he would not wish to join any club that would have him as a member.

Membership is difficult to obtain and its members are mostly drawn from the media, entertainment, arts and fashion industries. The club is known as a haunt of Young British Artists, including Damien Hirst, whose behavior caused him to be banned several times from the club. I used to have a friend that was a member of the Groucho Club, and visited quite a few times during the time of the so called Brit Pop sensation, I was there the night that The Gallagher brothers decided to throw snooker balls at each other, they were also banned...for a while anyway, as it was great bit of historic mythology for the club.

And thats what many of these clubs live on and make them interesting, also in the 90s I was a member of a club called Tatty Bogles (The bogle is also a creature that loves to vex humans until they go insane) off Kingly street, legend has it that the club was owned by the guy that played Flash Gordon in the old black and white TV series, I don't know what truth lies in this, but one thing for sure it was the strangest, darkest little place you could have imagined. It looked like it was stuck in 1973 with staff that looked in their 70s too. But thats what made it so endearing, it felt like your own private secret den, where the fake and over priced glitz of modern london were banned. Of course this same understatement attracted a post ironic crowd, who started to make the club more popular. Even Kate Moss could be seen frequenting its dark corridors, it was then that you knew the place had lost its original feel. Recently it has been closed down for a complete refurbishment, I'm not sure what it will be like but I'm sure it will loose a lot of its charm.
Another one of my favorite clubs is The Phoenix Artists Club just off the Charring Cross Road. Again a basement bar ( my favorite type - I believe all good drinking places are closer too hell than heaven), is located in the original dressing and rehearsal rooms of the Phoenix Theatre where Laurence Olivier made his debut on stage in the thirties in "Private Lives" with Noel Coward and Gertrude Lawrence. A large cellar like space with worn wooden tables and theatrical memorabilia. As you'd expect, the Phoenix Artist Club serves an arty looking clientele, from the usual old soaks to Topshop girlies. Members-only apparently, but they don't always check for a card. The Phoenix Artist Club is pleasantly dark and nicotine stained; more a wine and pint place than for cocktails love it.

But the club I've always wanted to be a member of, but I know will never have me is The Colony Rooms (also known as Muriel's) at 41 Dean Street, Soho, London. The Colony Room is an intimidating cubby hole which, over the past 60 years, has seen everyone from Francis Bacon to Kate Moss hold court.
There’s a buzzer hidden down a filthy corridor on Dean Street that you probably shouldn’t ever press if you’re moderately prudish or offended by sentences where the clauses, conjunctions and adverbs are made up entirely of swear words. There’s a clue to what you can expect in the name next to the bell. Written in thick marker pen is the pithy ‘Cunty’.
The room at the top of the narrow stairs is about the size of the front half of a caravan. It’s warm, verging on stuffy, and everything is painted a crepuscular shade of green.
The Museum of London website says of the Colony Room, "The Colony Room was one of many drinking clubs in Soho. The autocratic and temperamental owner Muriel Belcher created an ambiance which suited those who thought of themselves as misfits or outsiders."
Belcher,bucolic, alcoholic, lesbian heroine lover, had previously run a club called the Music-box in Leicester Square during World War II. She managed to secure a 3PM-to-11PM drinking license for the Colony Room bar as a private members club, whereas public houses had to close at 2:30PM. Francis Bacon was a founding member, walking in the day after it opened in 1948. He was "adopted" by Belcher as a "daughter" and allowed free drinks and £10 a week to bring in friends and rich patrons.
After Belcher's death, the club continued under the stewardship of her long-term barman Ian Board, known as Ida, until his death in 1994. In turn, it then passed to his veteran barman Michael Wojas, who recently celebrated his silver jubilee at the club. Board and Wojas have ensured that the Colony Room today is as popular as ever with artists of all types, and in particular of late, those who have come to be known as Young British Artists (YBAs), including Damien Hirst, Sarah Lucas and Tracy Emin. It is the pulse of Soho, the thermometer of London. Why of course it’s the Finest of Wines, the most exclusive club in the Grandest of Cities, though its label may be a little tatty, ‘it’s history is beyond salubrious,’
Some might disagree with the rare beauty of the scummy entrance in Dean Street, but then they’d go to the Soho House, and quite frankly, they are the type of person you wouldn’t want or expect to meet there. I would be surprised to meet Paris Hilton there, but not surprised to bump into Amy Winehouse, I could imagine Britney Spears in her current state, like Princess Margaret or Sarah Lucas, collapsed drunkenly on the floor.
There are rules, unspoken of course, when you enter the Colony, disrobe your prejudice and join the party. Of course you will remain unique enough to be allowed in, to mix and mingle with the celebrities and miscreants, writers, artists, East-end boys and West-end girls, pop stars, drunks, actors, art dealers, poets, performers and plumbers; occasionally even the odd, and I mean really odd, lawyer, and prosecuting council might stand you a drink. But don’t be fooled by the roll call, this isn’t the Groucho Club, (now known as ‘Soho’s Wetherspoon’s’ by some). They’ll be a Lady this, or a Lord that, but not a sniff of an IT girl or footballer — whatever they are. Being rich or famous is not enough to be a member of this august establishment, and the waiting list is as long, and as short as it is for a Birkin bag; and that certainly wouldn’t help. Just remember you cannot enter and lie back on your laurels, you’re walking in the footsteps of sacred monsters and mythical beasts — Brendan Behan, Lucien Freud, Dylan Thomas, William Blake (shurelysomemishtake Mr Daniel Farson? Ed), Elizabeth Smart, John Deacon, Joe Strummer, William Burroughs, Jeffrey Bernard, George Melly, Colquhoun & MacBride, Colin MacInnes, Julian MaLaren-Ross, Patrick Hamilton, Nina Hamnett, Jean Muir, Lord Snowdon, Craigie Aitchinson, Terry Frost, Jeff Nuttal. The still living dignitaries include Damien Hirst, Big Twiggie, Sebastian Horsley, Brunton, Suggs and Chas, Clare & Lawrence the Plumber, John Moore, Wilma, Frances the transsexual, The Magic Numbers, Kate Moss and Stella McCartney, Amanda Harris, Pete Doherty, Vanessa Fenton, Alabama 3, Polly Morgan, Sean Bean, Simon Hopkinson, James Birch, Salena Godden, Barry Humphries, Sienna Miller & Rhys Ifans, John Maybury, Michael Smith, Fergus Henderson, Jude Law — dearie me, any more for the roll call?

However modern and trendy the cliental get, you cannot forget the history of this extraordinary establishment, where dreams have turned into the usual piss and biscuits at the bottom of the baby buggy by morning, but they have also become priceless art, music, books, films, poems, museum currency and saleroom extravaganza. More importantly it is the refuge and enticement for finishing that piece of work, though it has been known to stop you from doing your tax returns.

This little green room with its attached single toilet and cloakroom, has launched, introduced and buried some of the greatest art this past century has known, let alone what the future might produce.

The Colony Room might be small, but it’s like a beautiful tended and well-watered allotment, full of the vain and glorious.

Maybe there is something quintessentially British about being in a club, from the scouts to the street gang with their glorious hoodies. We love feeling like we are part of something exclusive. A place we can escape too and pretend to be someone else for the night.

Your round!
Lord Monty

Saturday, 5 January 2008

A right proper New Years Knees Up!

So then. First things first: a very happy New Year to you all, even if you don't wish me one, fellow chaps and chapettes. I have lost count of the number of times I have uttered these words over the past few days, and I am amazed at how such a cheery, upbeat greeting of goodwill has more often than not been met with grunts, snorts, retching and sounds akin to someone keeling over and dying.

"Happy New Year!" you beam to colleagues, friends and members of your family, and all they can spout back to you is "meh, pfft, gnarrr... GRR", followed by, if you are lucky, a coherent sentence of such negativity that you, too, feel like keeling over and dying.

Let's face it: the New Year is not a happy time. It is a time of darkness, illness, obesity and self-loathing. It is a time when you look back at the year gone by, ask what you have achieved and realise that the answer is: nothing, except maybe when I changed the light bulbs back in June to eco-friendly ones, though they are now giving me migraines.

And so you look ahead to the next 12 months, and you make New Year resolutions. The problem with resolutions is if they worked, we wouldn't have to keep making them every year.

I chuckled for the first time this month when I saw an advertisement for a big health shop that promises to make you give up smoking/lose weight/stop drinking, and I thought: "This advert is exactly the same as the one you put out a year ago. If it worked that well, you wouldn't be running it again, would you?"

That aside I intend to see this year with a positive attitude in my every step, push aside the negative types and grab life by the scrotum and proclaim to the sky "I demand a refund".

Cherrio and bring on Easter.

Lord Monty