Well, sometimes. An old friend's busy doing some sound magicke at London's famous RAK studios and sent me this:
Caption, "Look who lives on the wall here." Hey, let's hear it for Lemmy. Dam straight.
Your Pal,
LSP
Well, sometimes. An old friend's busy doing some sound magicke at London's famous RAK studios and sent me this:
Caption, "Look who lives on the wall here." Hey, let's hear it for Lemmy. Dam straight.
Your Pal,
LSP
"So where've you been, so-called 'LSP'?" you mutter askance. That's a very good question and the answer's simple, in the UK. Object being to take two Sundays off and have some fun in the Sceptered Isle. So far so good with a week in London and attendant serious clubbing, let the reader understand, and now Edinburgh.
The high point? Going to mass on Sunday at St. Peter's London Docks (SPLD), one of the founders of the Anglo-Catholic Movement as we know it today. Tract into act sorta thing, and they did just that, ministering heroically to the cholera stricken poor in the 19th century.
That in mind, Sunday's Mass was outstanding. Hordes of kids, 13 Confirmations, a full church, great sounding choir and sparkling wine after Mass. Totally all good and uplifting in every respect. Well done, SPLD, you're bucking the trend and showing the world that real religion, as opposed to its ersatz rainbow simulacrum is the way forward.
And what good people! America take note, the UK is home to some pretty switched on punters, no kidding. Happy with that, I strolled through the streets of East London after Mass with an old friend, and today?
Rode the rails to Edinburgh and the Royal Scots. More on this adventure as it unfolds.
God bless,
LSP
You, the discerning and gentle reader, will be pleased to know that I'm not a gambling man. Far be it from me to wager fast and loose on the vagaries of Dog Coin, the Peoples' Currency, and other speculation. That said, others have gambled and played deep, not least at Crockford's on St. James in the 1820s.
William Crockford was a fishmonger, born and raised at Temple Bar in London but, with a quick mathematical mind and attention to odds raised himself to a professional gambler, winning a massive fortune at cards, 100,000 pounds, millions now, at a game with various nobility in a tavern off St. James.
The Fishmonger gambler sensibly invested this money in a club, No. 50 St. James, over and against White's. This aristocratic gambling hell became all the rage, as did its play. For example:
The great majority of the club’s members were serious, indeed inveterate, gamblers. The equivalent of about $40 million is believed to have changed hands over Crockford’s first two seasons; Lord Rivers once lost £23,000 ($3 million) in a single evening, and the Earl of Sefton, a wastrel of whom the diarist Charles Greville observed that “his natural parts were excessively lively, but his education had been wholly neglected,” lost about £250,000 (almost $33 million today) over a period of years. He died owing Crockford more than $5 million more, a debt that his son felt obliged to discharge.
Crockford retired a multi-millionaire (not a socialist) in the 1840s and lost most of his fortune, apparently, on ill-advised bets on the Derby. Captain Gronow reckons, on reflection, "One may safely say, without exaggeration, that Crockford won the whole of the ready money of the then existing generation.” Quite a thing, we're talking millions and millions of pounds by 1820s/30s reckoning.
The Clubhouse still exists today and you can see it on your left as you stroll towards White's famous bay window. It was bought by a Russian oligarch around a decade ago and then squatted. Rumours that the DLC are purchasing this fine Regency building are precisely that, rumours.
Arduus Ad Solem,
LSP
Just in. The UK's Excel Centre, a massive event venue set in the heart of London's bustling Canary Wharf deadzone financial district, is hosting DragCon on 6-8 January 2023. What is DragCon UK 2023? Just a kid-friendly drag show featuring young boys dressed up as junior prostitutes walking down a runway.
Did anyone say pedophile groomer, and if not why not. What utter abhorrence. And on point, what kind of parents would so abuse their children this way? For that matter, how would any sane culture defend and promote such wickedness.
Answer being, of course, that the culture's not sane, it's been driven bad crazy by the infernal power. Baphomet, as this simple mind-blog never tires of reiterating, is notoriously trans. And you'll note, scandalized onlookers, that Satan always abandons his own. No fooling.
That in mind, perhaps it's no accident that GM's funding trans libraries for US kindergartens, and that London's Excel Centre's owned by the Abu Dhabi National Exhibitions Company. Last I heard, the Unied Arab Emirates was against transgenderism, in fact it's illegal in their country, as is dancing.
So what's this all about? Apart from the urgent need to boycott hideous, ugly and overpriced Crocs.
Your call,
LSP
Drive into the light on the way to yesterday's evening Mass at Mission #2, by the lake. There it was, a Texan sunset and there I was, powering into the incandescent beauty of the thing. Is the infinite glory of God revealed to us in creation? It certainly was to me on the way to Lake Whitney and I was reminded of a time, several decades ago now, in London.
It was one of those points when pretty much everything seemed to have collapsed and I was utterly miserable, staying at Fr. Michael Hollings' eclectic community in Bayswater. He lived, this cousin of the Duke of Norfolk, in a small office which somehow doubled as a bedroom and in I marched to pour out my tale of woe, and it was exceedingly woeful. No kidding.
Well, the priest listened, smiled and said, "Look out of the window at the sky," it was uncharacteristically blue, "and the trees. Beautiful, God is very, very good." So I looked out of the window and yes, it was beautiful, and my heart felt peace at that moment in the revealed goodness our loving God.
Sentimental, mawkish piety? No. Bear in mind, Hollings had fought at Monte Casino in the Guards, I think as a Major. No small thing, and the point of this story? There's several, not least this. Look out, open your eyes, and behold the glory, goodness and love of God. As even the pagans of antiquity sensed, Sol Invictus. There's immeasurable hope in that.
God bless you all,
LSP
So what do you do in central London? Many things, but I like to go clubbing, this time 'round the good old National Liberal Club, No. 1 Whitehall. So, pull on a blazer, straighten your tie, wrestle with annoying but cool miniature shotgun shell cufflinks, give those loafers a brush and head off, it's not far.
Pass through Russell Square and admire the British Museum without going in, then take a left on Museum Street and go south, myriad memories. Then, as if by instinct, perhaps it is, muscle memory, you find yourself on the Strand.
Cut down Villiers Street and rushing masses of people getting off work. They're heading for home via Charing Cross, going to a pub or some kind of restaurant or all three, but you're going to the club. That in mind, take a right on the Embankment and stroll far from the madding crowd to Gladstone's 1882 setup overlooking the Thames and Embankment Gardens.
The bar's congenial, the Terrace is great and the dining room's lovely. The Smoking Room's perfect too, except for the annoying fact that you're not allowed to smoke in it, but you can smoke on the Terrace, so all's not lost.
After a few drinks at the bar, head across the room for dinner. It's not bad and the club's proud of their chef, though I thought it a bit fixy. More trad club staples, please, and less Frenchifying. Still, a minor complaint and the company was good. A retired Colonel, a shooting salesman, several entertaining people from Ireland, think Parnell, and a retired civil servant with an interest in late antiquity. Far out, we talked Theodoric, Belisarius, #2A, Ireland and Army. Nice.
Eclectic and you can imagine the conversation at the table, also imagine that I was on my very best behavior. Well, it's hard not to be when you're sitting under life sized portraits of Gladstone. Dinner over, retire to the bar, chat with friends and then head home to Mecklenbugh Square, a good time had by all.
What a lot of fun and yet again haunted by ghosts and memories. Of my Father, who was a member, Gladstone himself and the Empire on which the sun never set. Today, this club's mostly for socializing and finding a place to relax in the midst of the rush of the city, but it was once a political powerhouse. And that's just it, was once.
Go there if you can, it has great reciprocal rights.
By Gladstone's Axe,
LSP
One of the things you can do in London is go to pubs, I like that and enjoyed the Princess of Prussia, the famous French House and the Coach & Horses, the last two being in Soho.
Just a lot of fun but be ready for a bit of a scrum inside and out the Soho pubs for the first part of the evening. They get more manageable as the night goes on. Then, after last orders, you can stroll down the road to Bar Italia for coffee. Always a good result.
And I know it's not a pub but I like Gordon's, which is a wine bar on Villiers Street, next to Charing Cross station. Back in the '80s the action was all inside, in a cellarlike bar, but now you can spread out onto a congenial terrace, and drink your claret under helpful heat lamps. The food's good too, simple and not too pricey.
Convenient. You can walk down the Strand or the Embankment, pull into Gordon's, enjoy that, then head over to Soho for the rest of the night. Fun, and it was good to revisit old haunts and discover they were still there, mostly unchanged.
Of course other things have changed, but that's another story.
Pints all 'round,
LSP
But where? At the Strand Continental Hotel above the London institution that is the India Club, just down the Strand from King's and a shortish stroll to most everything central. Absurdly cheap too, which is a bonus, and right there in the heart of it all.
Is the SCH fancy? No, it is not. Is it clean? Yes, it is. Has it changed much from the 1940s? Apparently not, and I like that. So pleased with the setup I headed East to Tower Hill and the Princess of Prussia pub to meet some old friends. What a good pub! Go there if you can.
Then back to the Strand which, unlike the SCH, has changed since the 1940s. In fact, it's changed in the last five years, but that's another story again. In the meanwhile, it's simply exciting to be back in London, there's a greatness to this city and you have to wonder at the Victorians who pretty much built what we see today. Yes, there were clearly giants in those days.
More anon as this adventure unfolds.
Cheers,
LSP
To mark this achievement, the Specialist came home with totally unaffordable steaks. We'll grill those in a bit and celebrate, asparagus wrapped in bacon and baby potatoes alongside. So there it is. But speaking of celebration, I've got a good mind to take a train journey.
You know, for several days, with a Pullman, Diner and all the rest. Traverse this land by rail, as a kind of recce perhaps. But witch way? Maybe the Dallas-Chicago-Detroit run or go West, up to Montana and then Alberta? Then again, perhaps something more... specialized?
All advice welcome and in the meanwhile, one song to rule them all.
DFTR,
LSP
After the French surrender, Wintle demanded an aircraft (with which he intended to rally the French Air Force to fly their planes to Britain and continue fighting Germany from British air bases); when refused, he threatened an RAF officer (Air Commodore A.R. Boyle) with a gun. It was alleged that he had threatened to shoot himself and Boyle, and for this he was imprisoned in the Tower of London.
My life in the Tower had begun. How different it was from what I had expected. Officers at first cut me dead, thinking that I was some kind of traitor; but when news of my doings leaked out they could not do enough for me. My cell became the most popular meeting place in the garrison and I was as well cared for as if I had been at the Ritz. I would have a stroll in the (dry) moat after breakfast for exercise. Then sharp at eleven Guardsman McKie, detailed as my servant, would arrive from the officers' mess with a large whisky and ginger ale. He would find me already spick and span, for though I have a great regard for the Guards, they have not the gift to look after a cavalry officer's equipment. The morning would pass pleasantly. By noon visitors would begin to arrive. One or two always stayed to lunch. They always brought something with them. I remember one particularly succulent duck in aspic - it gave me indigestion - and a fine box of cigars brought by my family doctor. Tea time was elastic and informal. Visitors dropped in at intervals, usually bringing along bottles which were uncorked on the spot. I don't recall that any of them contained any tea. Dinner, on the other hand, was strictly formal. I dined sharp at eight and entertained only such guests as had been invited beforehand. After a few days of settling in, I was surprised to find that - as a way of life- being a prisoner in the Tower of London had its points.
Sir:Frank Bower was not always able to eject unwanted patrons from El Vino (Letters, 1 May). One morning in the late Fifties, a West Indian workman entered what he thought was a pub and asked the proprietor for a pint of bitter. Empurpled with rage, embroidered waistcoat at bursting point, Bower was hustling him into Fleet Street when interrupted by a crisp military command from the back of the bar: 'That gentleman is a friend of mine. I have been expecting him. Kindly show him to my table.' Colonel Wintle - celebrated for inspecting the turn out of his German guards when a prisoner of war and for debagging a solicitor - had spoken.Rising to greet his guest, Wintle trained his monocle on Bower and ordered, 'Pray bring us two small glasses of white wine.' When this had been drunk and a convivial conversation concluded, the Colonel and his new friend rose, shook hands and went their separate ways.