Three Good Things

I've had a culturally very pleasing week. On Monday, Tinseltroos and I went to The Empire cinema in Leicester Square to see WALL-E, the latest film from Pixar. The last Pixar movie I'd seen was The Incredibles which hadn't excited me much. Up to that point I'd seen every film from the studio as a matter of faith the moment it opened in the cinema and I hadn't missed one since Toy Story. So I'd had a few years off, Cars and Ratatouille came and went and I have yet to see either. I felt rather differently about WALL-E. I'd been careful not to spoil myself too much but I had seen a teaser trailer and a few stills, both of which convinced me I had to see the film. The beauty of the imagery quite took my breath away and I found the notion of a story the romantic leads of which cannot talk beguiling. So I was pretty excited to be seeing the film. On the other hand I didn't want to fall into the trap of having unreasonable expectations either so I'd consciously tried to temper my enthusiasm. I needn't have worried, the film is a master piece. The story is a clever fairy tale with all the allegory that implies, managing to be both intelligent but not cynical as I find many animated films to be these days. The characters were a delight and credit must be given not only to the animators but also to Ben Burtt who crafted the audio. Though they don't talk, WALL-E and EVE can make sound and you can rely on the man who created R2-D2's vocal performance in the Star Wars films to come up with goods. There is real emotion even without dialogue. The film was, of course, absolutely stunning to look at. Th level of detail in everything, the design and the lighting set a new standard for animation and every frame was a delight to behold. The last film I cried in was Mulholland Drive which I finally saw about three years ago, I don't mind admitting there was a tear in my eye at the end of WALL-E.

On Thursday night I went to my first Prom concert of 2008 with my buddy Hegl.It was a semi staged production of L'incoronazione di Poppea by Monteverdi. The music was performed by a small period orchestra, the same one I saw accompany Purcell's The Faerie Queen a couple of years ago I fancy. The music and singing was first rate throughout and you could quite see why Nero fell for the charms of Poppea: it was a very sexy production. Although I knew the rough plot before I went I made sure to buy one of the librettos that The BBC makes available for such productions so that none of the subtlety was lost. I was really glad I did this as it revealed the more subtle ebbing and flowing of the plot and the relationships between the characters. The show was three hours not including the interval so it was gone eleven when we stepped out back into the London streets having spent three hours transported back to the Roman Empire via seventeenth century Venice.

Today I acted upon a recommendation I'd been given to see the Vilhelm Hamershøi show at the Royal Academy. I was almost completely unaware of his work before visiting but I am very glad I went. The pictures, painted toward the end of the nineteenth century feel like a mixture of Vermeer and Edward Hopper, with a distinctly Whistler edge to the colour. The paintings are often of empty rooms or if there is a figure he or she often has their back to us and is seemingly lost in their own thoughts. The muted hues and enigmatic characters led many of today's patrons to grumble about the pictures being "miserable". I think they missed the point; they aren't sombre, but they are quiet paintings, ones that revel in silent contemplation and as such I found them very moving. The sense of atmosphere and stillness is not something often associated with modernish painting and it was all the more refreshing for that.

Black Ships Ate The Sky

I'm always intrigued by what I like and what I do not and why. My tastes are fairly eclectic and reasonably catholic though I would be a liar if I said I could appreciate the qualities in anything.

One of Tinseltroos' favourite bands is Current 93, a band who have tried most genres in their long career with, to my ears at least, highly variable degrees of success. At present they seem to be in a rather "post rock" mode. Post rock is a rather unhelpful name as it implies that rock is now defunct, which it isn't, and that post rock is a natural successor, which it isn't. I prefer the term "prog punk", i.e. a type of music played by people who would like to play complex prog rock but only have enough skill to play punk. The end result is usually a band with an unnecessary number of guitarists (four at one stage last night - that's more than The Eagles ever managed) and assorted stringed instruments, pianos and keyboards. A simple riff pattern will start quietly and slowly and then get louder and a wee bit faster, but never to a tempo that could be misconstrued as exciting, over the course of about seven minutes until the song is done. The singer, David Tibet in this case, will "sing" over the top of this mass of sloppy sound generally on the subject of black ships (likes his Homer obviously) and skies. This went on for nearly two hours, which was a bit much I felt.

There were some good parts to the evening though. Marc Almond did three of songs with longtime Current 93 collaborator, Michael Cashmore. The first song was transcendentally wonderful and is apparently on Current 93's last album. He then did a couple of songs of the poetry of Eric Stenbock set to Cashmore's music. Stenbock is a terrible poet, and I mean "terrible" in both its common usage sense and its true definition: this is poetry so bad that it makes the skin crawl. Almond's performance was lovely and it's a shame that such talent had to be wasted on this sub-McGonagall twaddle.

The other surprise of the night was Baby Dee. Her brand of music can be described as slightly vaudevillian, slightly post-rock (it gets everywhere these days it seems) and was at times entrancing and spellbinding. Playing both the piano and harp with equal adeptness her vocal style always feels like it is an almost painful release of energy and emotion. A real gem.

All things considered it was a very mixed evening. Had Current 93 played for an hour less than they did I think I would not feel so negatively about the performance. I can take a little post-rock, I even actively like some Sigur Rós but two hours of the same song was a little much for me. According to Tibet, this will be their last performance for "a long time". I am hoping that next time they will have found another musical genre that better suits their talents.

Work In Progress

Here's a little sped up video of the most recent quick sketch I've done in Colors on the homebrew DS card. I love this little application.

Leningrad

Well who'd have guessed? This is the first weekend (excluding Christmas) that I've had both days off from work since October last year. I am writing this with a new haircut and having had a long walk out to beyond Buckingham Palace this morning. The route I take would be much quicker if I didn't have to do a huge detour around the grounds of the palace. Sadly one suspects that Her Maj wouldn't take too kindly to ramblers and the razor-wired fences act as a further deterrent.

I'm now back at home watching England lose in the rugby. T has plans to take photos tomorrow so I had best go and dust off the tripod and associated paraphernalia.

I promised to write up the details of the rest of my week but I got sidetracked by work (again). On Wednesday night a few friends and I went to see the Royal Philharmonic perform Shostakovich's 7th Symphony at The Royal Festival Hall (this is turning into quite a regal post isn't it?). Following a moment of panic where we received a phone-call from one of our number who'd gone to the Barbican, having convinced himself that was the venue, we all made it to our seats on time. Shostakovich's 7th is, I think, my favourite piece of classical music. It's a huge piece, taking an hour and quarter to perform but the range of emotion that runs through the piece easily holds your attention. I remember the first time I heard it was the last year I studied music at school, so I'd have been about fourteen. The small excerpt we heard so grabbed me that I told my parents that night over dinner. So glad were they that their long-haired, spotty, heavy metal loving offspring had declared an interest in something they could relate to that they immediately went out and got it on CD. I have loved it ever since and listen to it frequently.

Wednesday's performance was very good. The conductor seemed largely ineffectual as the exhortations he made had no effect upon the members of the orchestra who seemed quite content to take things at a pace that suited them. They carried this off with aplomb. I think I am still spoiled by last year's Prom performance by the Simon Bolivar Orchestra because every classical show I've been to since just hasn't had that same level of passion and enthusiasm. Wednesday's performance was firmly in the very professional category rather than sparks flying. Nonetheless the music is so potent that I had hairs standing on the back of my neck for large sections and there was a tear in my eye at the end of the first movement.

All Good Things...

Last night Tinseltroos and I finished watching the last of the original four series of Futurama. This has made us both rather sad, as though a good friend has left our lives. I shall be trying to find a copy of Bender's Big Score soonest. I am generally not good with television series. Even the good ones bore me quite quickly. The only series I've got through prior to this was The Prisoner and that is probably my favourite telly of all time. And this should tell you how much I loved Futurama. There has never been a show with so perfect a geeky sense of humour. It pokes fun at the things that annoy geeks, it panders to our whims and fantasies (where, exactly, is my flying car?) as well as having characters with whom we can empathise and can share a laugh.

Today has only been made bearable by the iTunes discovery I made during the week. I finally figured out how to make a Smart Playlist that sorts a band's output chronologically. Because of this, today is a very special Rock Friday. Today we have every Led Zeppelin album, in order. It's two o'clock in the afternoon and we've hit Physical Graffiti. All Hail "Hammer of the Gods Friday".

In Praise of Small Shops

R.G. Lewis, originally uploaded by bjmurphy234.

In these days of corporate imperialism, where every highstreet in every corner of the Western World is tending toward a scary amount of homogeneity I increasingly find myself cherishing those last bastions of individuality and good service. I was reminded of that this week when I received a 'phone call from R. G. Lewis, a camera shop in London, to whom I'd taken two pieces of camera kit for either modification or repair. Not only was the repair work done quickly and to a very high standard but the expense was reasonable and the personal service fantastic.

When I walked into the shop, the assistant recognised me from when I'd brought the camera in a week previously and so had no trouble finding my stuff. I'd been so impressed by R. G. Lewis' collective attitude that I'd bought my current camera from them at the end of last year. Having been to the other Leica shop in London where they'd been very snooty and extremely patronising to Tinseltroos, even though she has a masters in engineering and I am a dumb artist, I'd decided that the thought of handing over a lot of money (many, many weekends worth of overtime) to them felt wrong so it was lovely when I discovered Lewis's and they were so good and pleasant to deal with.

Here then is a little, very incomplete, list of shops in London that are a pleasure to spend money in and are a celebration of independent retailing:

R. G. Lewis
Les Senteurs
William Rose Family Butchers
Gosh Comics
Bates the Hatter
Pretty Traditional Greengrocer
The Neals Yard Dairy
Old Hat
Treadwells Bookshop
Peter Cook's Guitar World

Sunday at the V&A

In the café at the V&A, originally uploaded by Mr Atrocity.

Tinseltroos and I started today in a pretty lazy fashion. I microwaved the spare, frozen blueberry pancakes for breakfast (thank you Margaret, freezing them worked a treat) and by the time we'd eaten enough and got dressed it was noon. We walked to the Victoria and Albert Museum primarily to see the "Out of the Ordinary - Spectacular Craft" exhibit. I've posted a few photos of some of my favourites below:

Now all that remains for the weekend is to cook ourselves some supper and maybe watch a movie. I may almost be able to face Monday tomorrow.

Saturday Nights Alright For...Music apparently.

P1050270, originally uploaded by matatabby.

In my excitement at new guitars and the wonder of dogs I forgot to mention what I did on Saturday night. Tommy Dog had managed to get four of us tickets to see The L.A. Philhamonic play Sibelius' Symphonies 5 and 6 plus a few of his songs at The Barbican (or "Barbie Cannon" as my chum L calls it). We were due to meet up in a pub at 6 for a quick beer before wandering down to the concert hall. It was comfortably close enough to Schossadlerflug to walk, so thirty minutes early I trotted out of our front door and headed east down Clerkenwell Road. I had bought a new zip-up cardigan and had chosen to wear it with a suit. Though it was a cold evening the layers kept me cosy in that way that only several layers of natural fibre can - not baking, can't breathe hot, just toasty and warm.

I got to the pub a few minutes early and enjoyed watching the world go by whilst nursing my pint. Eventually my buddies arrived and we had a drink and a chat before heading down into the bowels of the worst of 1980s architecture which surrounds the Barbican. I like the centre itself, but there are a lot of soulless concrete cubes surrounding it. I hadn't been to a concert there since I went and saw Bert Jansch with L a year or so ago. It's a superb venue. Even though we had seats in the very back row we had an unobstructed view of the whole stage and crucially for me, being a little over six foot, some leg-room. It makes a huge change from the Royal Albert Hall. The performance was very good. They played the pieces in the order I'd have chosen, i.e. ending with the 5th Symphony. This worked doubly well becuase it took most of the performance of the 6th for the orchestra to get into its groove. After the interval they were really very very good. It was a really sweeping reading of the 5th and a delight to the ear. If it lacked the fire and passion of the Simon Bolivar Youth Orchestra, they certainly were supremely musically confident.

After the show (about 9.45) I decided to take a little detour and walk around St Paul's Cathedral on my way home. When you start walking through the empty streets of the financial district at night you can't help but feel a little like Rick Deckard in Blade Runner. It feels very cool. That opens out into London Wall, which marks the boundary of the old city and from there you can see St Paul's. Not only did I get to hear the bells chime 10 o'clock but I also got to see some of old London at night. I sauntered along Fleet Street past the beautiful old Daily Express offices where I saw three teenage girls attempting rail slides on their skate boards. Using a short-cut I learned from Dr. Nic I was able to cut through up onto Chancery Lane and from there, home. A bowl of apple crumble and custard warmed me ready for bed.

Lovely.

Les Misérables - a short review

Saw this musical for the first time tonight. Here's its report card:

Story - C
Music - C-
Libretto - FAIL
Cast - C-
Set - B
Costume - C
Audience - FAIL

Overall - Semi-skimmed melodrama.

Misanthropebook

I finally received one too many Facebook invitations and decided something had to be done. I've made this spoof website to show an idea of what an anti-social networking site might look like:

www.misanthropebook.com

I got the idea of doing a one page spoof website from this fantastic Second Life satire:

www.getafirstlife.com

Baudrillard's Children

Television has long walked the line between fact and fiction in subtler ways than cinema. The smaller scale of many TV dramas, the success of soap opera and latterly the domination of reality TV demonstrate that fiction that looks like mundane reality and reality that is dressed up as drama cross-pollinate ideas and themes with ever increasing interdependence. Yet despite this symbiosis and the constant allegations of fakery in reality TV there are important differences between it and drama.

TV drama is art, as in artifice; reality TV, nominally, is not. A TV drama uses complex editing, imagined people, sets and as many takes by actors as it requires to get the director's vision on tape. The entire process is a creative endeavour. Every situation represents a deliberate choice by someone working toward the production of a cultural text.

Reality television purports to place real people in real situations and to record the events that follow. The reality of the show may be wildly variable from the highly controlled and managed environment of "Big Brother" or "The Apprentice" to the apparently transparent modified reality of "Britain's Got Talent" where a situation is created in front of an audience both live and televisual and the programme appears to merely record the proceedings: there is an obvious emphasis on the putting on of a show rather than the concealed camera surveillance of the "Big Brother" house.

All documentaries and reality-based television show editorialise; their subjectivity is unavoidable. As I've discussed before, the mere act of selecting a moment, a camera angle and the timing of edits means that any pretence toward objectivity is just that, a pretence. It does not necessarily follow, however, that this means that documentaries are faked and no different to drama. Nonetheless, the line between a real event captured and the dramatisation of an event is blurring. For example, the exits of all contestants on "The Apprentice" were filmed months in advance of their actual departure from the show, their reactions are faked and the narrative continuity is created in post-production rather than real-time. A further example: the office where "The Apprentice" interviews are filmed is a set, based on a Alan Sugar's real office but with the improved lighting facilities that a purpose built set offer.

The BBC is quite open about these modifications to the natural course of events and whilst they are not apparent to the casual viewer they do not push the show into the realms of drama, unlike drama masquerading as documentary, such as United 93 which I've discussed before. What is happening with these decisions to use a set that looks like an office but with the trappings of a studio to facilitate higher quality images and the pre-recording of the contestant's exits to enable slicker editing for greater emotional impact is that the events in the show and the contestants themselves become simulacra - carefully crafted representations of what the real could be, a copy of reality - more real than real, in sharper focus with better lighting than plain dowdy reality could manage.

Mark Burnett, the creator of "Survivor" amongst other reality shows, has avoided the use of the word 'reality' when describing his programmes. "I tell good stories." he says, "It really is not reality TV. It really is unscripted drama." Whilst I agree that "Survivor" et al bear little resemblance to our perceived day to day reality, it is also questionable whether the epithet "unscripted drama" is very suitable either.

Unlike a TV drama, there are real-world implications to the process of a reality show, mostly financial, be it in terms of actual prize money or follow-on fees from newspaper stories and so forth. One could argue that actors pick roles with the same motivations but the actor is picked to play a pre-defined role that exists solely within the realm of the drama, the reality-TV show contestant is picked to be their portrayal of themselves. The connection between the friends, family and the contestant themself is pulled into the show to emphasise the reality. It is this suggestion of a connection between the contestant and the outside world, the one in which we live, which differentiates him or her from the actor. The relationships, domestic arrangements and history of the contestant are an integral part of the creation of this reality. Thus we know that Paul Potts, the winner of "Britain's Got Talent" is a Carphone Warehouse salesman. This is important information, it sells his reality to us; he becomes more real. Reality TV is itself a simulacrum of real life where the notion of truth has been usurped by a copy of reality - a hyper-realistic, more real than real version to the point where, as Jean Baudrillard put it, "the real no longer exists".

It is not enough that Paul Potts, is a talented aspiring singer who has received much, self financed, professional tuition in order that he might achieve his dreams of singing professionally, nor that he has sung in fringe opera for ten years. What we need is an 'undiscovered artist', a telephone salesman from Port Talbot with a 'hidden talent'; the judges on the show even described him thus. It is not a hidden talent however; two minutes of search on Google proves that, but what makes for the better reality/story, the whole truth, or the selected parts of his past that made up what we saw in ITV's version of reality? Obviously it is the latter and so that is what we got. The hyper-reality of "Britain's got Talent" is partly faux documentary, for example, the interviews conducted as the contestants come off stage were clearly not recorded at the time the editing suggests (the semi-finalist puppeteer has a different puppet when he is interviewed than he had on stage) and partly the careful selection of facts about the artists' backgrounds to create the desired reality of the programme makers. Nothing that was said about Mr Potts is untrue, so "Britain's Got Talent" is not drama, but it is not reality either. With the addition of the edits, the lighting, the coaching and the hyperbole, he becomes more real than real. He becomes a hyperreal entity and so we watch hyperreality TV.

Truly, we are all Baudrillard's children now.

Superficial Snapshots

There are many reasons I love the internet. Probably the aspect that appeals to me most about it is the way it enables individuals to be creative in ways previously only open to those with huge resources or access to mass media. Above you can see me thumbing through a perfect example of this. I was reading one of my favourite blogs, "suck it trebek" authored by Nerver and Jen when I came upon an entry about the work of Alison V. Smith, a Texas based photographer. Alison had self published a small book of photographs called Superficial Snapshots.

I liked what I saw online and so, through the magic of PayPal, I ordered myself a copy. It is a delightful book full of pictures displaying a strong sense of colour and composition: lovely. It is hard to see how, without the series of tubes, she could have marketed her book to a broad enough audience to make it worthwhile producing and how I could have found out about it and then purchased it.

Thank you Alison, and thanks to Jen and Nerver for the tip off.

Paging Dr. Feelgööd

I really shöüld be över this by nöw. I'm thirty öne years öld. I shöüld have deeply söphisticated tastes and have learned tö spürn the cheap and the shallöw, preferring the sübtle depths öf great cültüre. I dön't want tö want tö gö. And yet I cannöt deny the pröföünd yearnings that have been törmenting me för sö many years. And becaüse I am weak I am göing tö see Mötley Crüe play at The Hammersmith Apöllö ön Mönday night.

Stöp, I dö nöt need yöür pity.

New York - Part The Second

On the Friday morning we pootled around Soho and its environs taking a peek inside some of the shops. We met up with Lucretia for lunch prior to his jetting home to Maine that night. Ama was a very pleasant Itialian restaurant which Tinseltroos is modelling here:

The proprietor treated us to a lengthy diatribe on the failings of his employees who had apparently telephoned him thirty minutes before to say they were sick and couldn't come to work; he suspected this to be a fib and since the weather was a balmy 80 degrees I tend to agree.

Friday evening saw us visit the New York offices of a former employer so we could a) Take advantage of their lovely roof-terrace with views like this:

and b) go out for the evening with several former colleagues for pizza at the remarkable Lombardi's Pizzeria:

Lombardi's claims to be the oldest pizzeria in New York and I love New York style pizza. The consistency seems like a very light dough which has been thoroughly beaten flat meaning that once cooked it is slightly thicker than an Italian pizza base but not as bready as more deep-pan pizzas. They also had pitchers of Yuengling and Sam Adams beer which was the perfect accompaniment. Following dinner we went out for a few drinks till our jet-lag would finally leave us alone no more. Here is my Perfect Manhattan in Manhattan:

On Saturday we had breakfast in an old style New York restaurant called Prime Burger. The swing out tables and bar-top dining combined with the staff and pleasingly mechanical till made me feel as if I'd just stepped into a Damon Runyon story. They did a good bacon and scrambled egg too. Next we took a ride in the fastest elevator I've ever been in up the Rockefeller Center to take in the New York skyline. Whilst not a high as the Empire State, the Rockefeller grants you wonderful views of the Empire State which I'd rather have that a view of The Rock. The vista laid our before us was predictably astonishing. Until you get above the roof line it is hard to grasp just how big New York City is. London apparently has a greater population but that's spread over a greater area and much of it is suburb, the part you'd actually call city-like is pretty contained. In New York it extends for miles. Amazing.

After The Rock (not Alcatraz) we went up to The Guggenheim. It was disappointing truth be told. Half the gallery is closed to allow for renovation, the entire exterior is shrouded in tarpaulin meaning little of Frank Lloyd Wright's design can be seen and the visiting exhibition of neo-impressionism and divisionism was full of some of the nastiest paintings I've seen. I've never liked Seurat and to have room after room filled with him and his acolytes did not cheer me or Tinseltroos. I liked this photo I took of the entrance to The Guggenheim though:

From there we walked to the Frick Collection. Henry Clay Frick was an industrialist who had a fortune so vast he decided to build a replica of a French palace on Fifth Avenue. The building itself is a skillful pastiche but is not of much interest beyond that. What is of interest is Frick's art collection that he filled the place with. He has Holbein's portrait of Thomas More, there are Rembrandts, Vermeers, Piero della Francescas and a collection of deliciously naughty Bouchers. If the building feels a touch ersatz the art more than makes up for it.

We did one more gallery, the International Center of Photography. Having thumbed through a copy of Time Out New York I'd found that the gallery had an exhibition of the work of Stephen Shore, one of my favourite photographers, and so we decided to stop by. In addition to the Shore, which was the biggest selection of prints I've seen together in one place there was another show on African America portraiture. Whilst this could have been very tokenistic, the theme of the show was how photography had allowed images of prominent African Americans to be widely disseminated and thus how photography formed part of the political struggle for equality. The photographs chosen were incredible as were the stories of those portrayed. A very impressive show.

Here is a napping courier I photographed on our wanders through Midtown. I only include this photo because I like it:

Having had enough of culture we head back to Soho through the East Village stopping off for a spot of lunch. Inspired as I was by Stephen Shore, here is my pastiche of a famous Shore picture of a half eaten McDonald's meal in 1973:

Hockney

As long as I've been properly interested in art (say about 25 years) I've always loved David Hockney's work. For most of this time my adoration has been confined to art-books, never a good source of accurate colour and totally absent in terms of texture and scale. Still the work always connected with me. Even since I've been living in London I've seldom been able to actually stand in front of his work because although the Tate owns quite a few notable pieces (like "A Bigger Splash" for example) they hang them so infrequently that you could be a regular visitor to the the gallery and never see them.

For the last few months we've been lucky enough to have a large retrospective exhibition of Hockey's portraits at the National Portrait Gallery and on Thursday night I went to see it. There's something a little odd about seeing work with which you are very familiar in one form (book reproduction in this case) and seeing the actual work in the flesh. I've always known what an incredible draughtsman he is as sketches in pen or pencil translate more readily from original to repro, paintings seldom fare so well. So whilst I was expecting to be dazzled by the drawings, and I was, I did not know what to expect from the paintings. They did not disappoint. I think the two things which bowled me over most about his paintings are the use of texture and colour, especially the latter. Compared to the actual canvas every print I've seen does such a massive disservice to the original as to be practically meaningless. The choice of colours and their juxtaposition was magical and masterful. I doubt anyone has captured the warm southern Californian sun as well and the vivacious quality that suffuses those first Californian paintings is carried through into all his subsequent work, whether painted in California or not. The paintings from his Bradford and Royal College of Art days, before he moved to the U.S., are so drab in comparison, which is not to say that they are bad paitings, far from it, but it is obvious that as soon as he arrived in California it was as if his eyes opened and his palette exploded with a vibracy never seen before. No-one I can think of since Renior has painted people in such a joyous fashion. The pictures lift the spirits, they excite the eyes and you can almost feel the warmth of the sun on the back of your neck, which in a cold, windy and rainy January in London is a pleasant thought indeed.

Alan Moore Speaks

Stewart Lee interviewed comics legend Alan Moore, author of "Watchmen", "Lost Girls", "V For Vendetta" and so on, for the BBC Radio 4 series "Chain Reaction". Some kind soul has digitised it and put it up as an mp3 here. An excellent listen and pleasant for me to hear a proper Northamptonshire accent as they're in serious decline with the ever expanding influence of Estuary English.

New Fox on the Block

New Fox on the Block, originally uploaded by Mr Atrocity.

A while back I complained that a Soho institution, "The Intrepid Fox", a goth pub on a site that had contained a pub for more than two hundred years had been forced to close, apparently because of plans by the new lease-holders to "develop" the building, I assumed into flats no-one could afford. That does not seem to have happened. The old building on Wardour Street is boarded up with "To Let" signs all over it. It appears therefore that these idiots have kicked out a successful business in order to try extort an even higher rent from some other luckless bastard and, having failed in this attempt, have been left with an empty building in a prime spot in Soho doing nothing. My tiny mind boggles.

In happier news, the Fox lives on. "The Intrepid Fox", complete with its iconic gargoyle over the door has re-opened just off Charing Cross Road. It's in a modern building which doesn't have the Dickensian charm of the old site but at least its spirit of individuality continues. We must be thankful for small mercies.