I have a dream, my brothers and sisters. A dream in which we have a place to drink and dance into the wee hours of the morning without recourse to hammered out-of-towners, shoddy cocktails or exorbitant membership fees.
Now when I think of Cadbury, I think of a glass and a half of milk in every half pound. I think of writhing goddesses crumbling chocolate across their pouting lips. And I think that surely this is all because the lady loves Cadbury’s Milk Tray.
Your housemate and her leather pig outfit. Your work colleague and her Twix stash. Me and my depleted desk-side booze collection. Dirty little secrets. And we all have them. But I say it’s time to stand tall; to hide no more. Let the world know who you really are.
I’m not trying to be provocative just for the Hell of it. Really. But I just can’t help feeling that someone might be pulling my leg with all this recent “the City is cool” stuff. It’s fine for New York’s Financial District to have the odd secret watering-hole. Tokyo: no problems there. But London? (Scoff.)
Four words, people: Cabaret. East London. Proud. Only you see, this isn’t Cabaret in that half-arsed style that we’ve all come to know and tire of. Welcome to Proud Cabaret.
Remember those days when we used to take everything American with a hearty pinch of either salt or irony? But then came Obama. And his hope. And his Nobel Peace Prize. So now, 51st State here we come. And damn if it doesn’t taste good.
Aside from tax inspections, break-ins and impressively convincing transsexuals called Mary, nothing beats a slice of oft-forgotten surprise to brighten one’s day. A dash of mystery to put a spring in the old step. A brush with the unknown to turn that frown upside-down. Something like the RCA Secret…
Autumn should be a time of magic and wonder. A time of comfortable revelry and glowing fireplaces – a sentiment I plan on seeing in from right here, at the last outpost of pop-up inspiration: a wood-panelled Swiss chalet right by the Thames.
You catch the title and immediately it’s head-in-the-gutter. Spy ring scandals; depraved acts of auto-asphyxiation; that nameless big-wig who flooded his London hotel suite under the drug-addled assumption that he was in fact a beaver. Well, behave, children. We’re talking art here.
Foreign exchange programmes are wondrous experiences – providing cultural insight, personal growth and (at least when I was a student) cute German fräuleins called Heidi.
Dum duh-duh dah-dum…
Woke up this morning, my baby was gone
And she’d taken my money, and run off with my best friend’s son.
So when it comes to culinary inspiration, who are you going to turn to: a four dress-size dropping ex-model or an offbeat New Yorker TV-chef called Dante?
The Bathhouse, Tava “333″ O’Halloran’s converted Turkish bathhouse club/restaurant/bar, launches in East London
Steve Lowes’ new gallery, the L-13 Light Industrial Workshop & Private Club for Art, Leisure & Disruptive Betterment of Culture
The best Sunday morning hangover brunches in town.
The new mini-chains: The Diner, Breakfast Club, & Hurwrundeki
Gary’s Bar is back. Sort of
London’s top rooftop drinking spots for Summer ’09
First Floor Projects – James Tregaskes living room art gallery – opens to the public.
Breathable booze with Bompas & Parr’s Alcoholic Architecture
Launch anything new these days and all that people give two hoots about is what makes it ‘special’. A U.S.P. (‘Unique Selling Point’, for both of you who escaped being beaten with the media stick) used to be the conceptual cherry in the metaphorical Manhattan of a business. Now’s it’s the cherry, the glass, and the whole bottle of whisky.
East London’s Whitechapel Gallery finally reopens after a vast and lengthy refurb