London, quite possibly the capital of the world.
Epicentric for the global financial services industry (cos we invented Time, of course), full of Busby-fitted pageantry, museums and galleries galore, shopping to rival anywhere else on the planet, fine architecture, green spaces, friendly cockneys, more than a handful of TV-and-Michelin star chefs, and of course home to the dear old Queen – the biggest tourist draw since, well, forever.
Problem is it caters only for tourists and kids. After 11pm, there’s bugger all happening to keep oldies like me awake. Which is strange, considering oldies like me generally have more disposable income than the kids, and will be back week after week, unlike the tourists.
So why does it shut at 11pm? Ok, ok there’s a few bars and “nightclubs” where the thirsty can be quenched and the dancers can gyrate. There’s even a couple of places where those so inclined can have their wallets Hoovered clean by a selection of fine-looking, flexible and nubile young ladies who have “professional dancer” as their occupation in their passports. Or so I’m told.
But where can I go to listen to some music that isn’t being pumped out at 110dB and 180 beats per minute, where I won’t have to use sign language to ask The Girlfriend what she’d like to drink, where I can get in without having to satisfy the 6’6″ hulk on the door that I’m not interested in drugs/guns/knives/alcopops/whatever.
Yes, I’m old and I hanker for yesteryear. I want a jazz/blues club that’s open until the last customer has gone, has an atmosphere so dense with cigarette smoke (remember that) that the US Surgeon General would regard it as his number one health risk to those living on the eastern seaboard, 3000 miles away. I want a place where the singers are so husky with Jack Daniels and smokes they all sound like Tom Waits (and that’s just the girls). Where they remember that Billie Holliday and Nina Simone sang without computer assistance. Where the female vocalists wear evening dresses cut low to match their voices. Where they don’t care if I’m not wearing Armani jeans.
Is there such a place? If there isn’t, let the oldies of London pitch in their investment funds and let’s start one. If there is, then please tell me where!!
Alas, even if there is, I’d have to leave before the warm-up act is finished. Y’see I live 25 minutes by train outside the city centre. So, naturally, since this is the capital of the world, has the greatest and most eclectic culture in the world, and, until the Tories change the rules on 24 hour drinking, there’s 24/7 entertainment (in theory – see above), the last train leaves at just after midnight. WTF? So, let me get this straight. Here I am out and about in London and, effectively, I have to be home and in bed by 1am or else? Or else I have to cop another £100 on a taxi. OK, that’s just about within my means, but still WTF.
So then there’s actually getting the train. At that hour, even in first class (there’s another class, dahlink?) the train seems to be largely occupied by those who can’t afford to eat in a proper eating place, even a McDonalds FFS, having spent all their cash on alcopops and/or super-strong lager. They have therefore decided that the best place to eat their foul-smelling burger/sandwich/curry/fish’n’chips is, you guessed it, right next to me.
They all, invariably, seem to have developed sudden deafness; they now absolutely, definitely need to shout at the top of their voices their re-capped memories of that bint with the big tits that they only just failed to pull or that bloke who was going to have a go until he was out-testosteroned by them in some way. There’s an increasing likelihood that the inevitable results of alcoholic over-indulgence combined with a kebab smothered in extra chilli sauce will remind them of the epicurean elements of their evening’s entertainment rather sooner than they, and I, wished for. If they ever had it, they’ve now lost their ability to at least use a napkin to wipe whatever disgusting condiment has been so recently applied to their faces They are the pinnacle of modern society. And they’re on the same train as me. Bastards.
Being on The Last Train is the very embodiment of hell on earth. Dante and Milton had no idea
So tourists, youngsters, aficionados of the art of exotic dancing, enjoy all that London has to offer. I’ll be on the last train home wishing I was still with you.
