London

max blink

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Dear Fastshow:

I'm posting this here because your Inbox is full. I must confess that I have not been out-and-abouting much, but that's because I live in a dodgy area between Cricklewood and Willesden, and not many cabbies will take me home at 3 or 5am.

It is also with deep regret that I admit that I have only lasted two months and change living in London, and that I am returning home on Tuesday to WORK where I am PERMITted. It has been nice (I have fond memories of the riot police from my trip to The New Den), but I will have to try again later when my finances have recovered. The only fringe benefits have been trips to White Hart Lane, relatively cheap pints and French wines, and Selfridges.

However, I fear I must head back to Vancouver, vanquish the mighty Mermaid foe, and return to my cubicle. Give us a report about places you'd recommend so I will know better when I return.

Max
 

Jinky

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Max,

I stayed in Cricklewood back in 1990.

Lots of good Irish Pubs. They even make you stand for the National Anthem at the end of the night.

The Soldier Song of course.
 

kurgan

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Que?

Max,

We'll take you out when ya get home. Promise. Morts sprained an ankle so we'll need you. Pints on me!
 

Fastshow

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alas....

As far as cheap French wines go, while I'm nowhere an authority on the subject (I don't know where Safeway get their £2.99 bottles of wine from) but if it's french wine you're after you should go to France. Their bidets are flowing with the stuff.

Next time you're over I recommend The Langley on, um, Langley St. in The West End. It's in the middle of PR land and the totty in that place is to be seen to be believed. Phenomenal. Whatever you do never go to Cafe de Paris despite your penchant for fine French wines. The prospect of having a drink next to Robbie Williams or one of the All Saints is not enough to justify spending £8 per. And they've nowt on tap, either. The bastards. I drove past Cricklewood the other day on my way up to Middlesbrough. It sounds as if I was right not to listen to the voices in my head telling me to stop and have a poke around.

Good luck replacing Morts, Fastshow. /COLOR]
 

Fastshow

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genius..........

From a London restaurant review page: > >

http://www.london-eating.co.uk/2252.htm



When my boyfriend told me he wanted to take me up the Oxo Tower for my birthday, I was a bit hesitant at first because I didn't really think it was my scene. How wrong I was! I mean, yeah, so it's a bit of a strain on the old back pocket, and I admit I did feel a bit uncomfortable initially. But a couple of ****tails helped me relax and soon I was really getting into it - we carried on well into the night. It was a great experience and I really loved it - so much so that I won't let my boyfriend take me anywhere else now! So if anyone ever wants to take you up the Oxo Tower, just throw caution to the wind and go for it!
10/10/03





Truly awesome.



 

Fastshow

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Since 99.264% of you would not have appreciated the subtle pisstake involved in the previous post about London's Oxo Tower, siffice it me to say that it was about anal sex. Oxo is brown, innit.

Anyway, for something further none will understand, read the following, borne of an idea of the Greatest-living Englishman, Stephen Fry. This is topical because I said so, because I think you all possess the sophistication of uncouth philistines and should make a concerted effort to arrest your uncultured and vulgarian predilections and because the Greatest-living Saint on TTP once went to the Groucho Club with his very pissed ladyfriend. Saint, of course, was as sober as a Conservative MP in Phuket.........

From The Evening Standard.......


The king of clubs

By Valentine Low, Evening Standard

3 June 2004

As closed worlds go, there is nothing quite so secretive, exclusive and, let's be honest, snobbish as London's clubland. It is a world of membership committees and waiting lists, where even if you know the right people it can take years to become a member.

Most people pass their entire existence without ever seeing the inside of any of the gentlemen's clubs that litter St James's and Covent Garden, not to mention their more modern counterparts in Soho and the West End.

Or is it that they are simply not trying? Stephen Fry has been offering free advice to the would-be gatecrashers of clubland, explaining to the general public how to smuggle themselves into some of London's finest clubs.

Now the Evening Standard is not a newspaper to shirk such a challenge. If Stephen Fry can do it, so can I, and thus it was that yesterday lunchtime I set off to see just how easy it was to slip into the exclusive establishments.

First off was the RAC in Pall Mall, where I march in doing my best to remember Fry's words that "confidence is the answer - look and feel as you belong more than the staff do". Not being one of life's gatecrashers, such self-assurance does not come naturally, but even I had to admit the RAC was a breeze. Fry was right: all you have to do is march in like you own the place, remember to turn left instead of right - a bit of preliminary research to establish such basic facts as the location of the bar can prove invaluable - and you can be lording it with all those legitimate members before you can say: "Mine's a large gin and tonic."

The RAC is not one of the smartest clubs - Fry recommends avoiding places like White's or Brooks's, as you are unlikely to get past the door - but it has a smattering of red-nosed Bufton-Tufton types. "Would you believe it?" chortles one with a voice like gravel on port. "Harharharhar."

Next up is the Oxford and Cambridge just along the road. The "march-in-briskly-staring-straight-ahead" technique works its magic again, but what the hell do I do now? On my right is a morgue-like dining room: on my left there is a closed door. What would Fry do now? Then I remember: Fry is actually a member of the Oxford and Cambridge. In desperation, I head upstairs, where at last I find sanctuary in the smoking room.

I flick through a copy of The Field, the silence broken only by the ticking of the clock on the marble mantlepiece and the sound of the solitary member in the room clearing his throat. I don't know about Stephen Fry, but I cannot take more than about five minutes of this stupefying dullness.

It's over to St James's Square, then, where I try my luck at the In and Out, also know as the Naval and Military. Never was a club more appropriately named: I was In at 12.50, and Out at

12.55, after a briskly efficient doorman caught up with me in the hallway and uttered those deadly words: "Excuse me sir, can I help you?"

When I said no, I was fine thank you very much, he replied: "Do you have your membership card on you?"

Never mind - it's on to the East India club, just across the Square, and a place that is simply asking for people to walk in off the street, it is so easy. In the downstairs lavatory there is a framed 1981 article from Die Welt about London's gentlemen's clubs, which includes a picture of the rauchzimmer - that's smoking room to you and me - of the "Army and Nancy Club". My final port of call is the Groucho. The door staff there are legendary for their ability to spot a non-member trying to wangle his way in.

I consider telling them that I am Stephen Fry's guest, but a Groucho member informs me this will not work as they will simply ring Fry and check.

But I'm lucky: both girls at the reception desk are busy as I walk in, so I stride up to the members' book, sign my name with an illegible flourish, and head for the bar. No sooner had I settled myself down with a beer, than I see the great man, Stephen Fry, taking a seat for a spot of late lunch.

I wander over to say hello: it would be rude not to, given the circumstances. I would like to tell you what we chatted about - suffice it to say Fry told some highly amusing stories about Ben Elton and Lord Hailsham - but Groucho Club rules state that no journalism should take place in the bar. And as we clubmen know, rules are rules.

 

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