The other evening, surrounded by Christmas shoppers in the West End of London, I happened to glance up at the illuminations and was moved all over again by the old, old story. Yes, the sign was lit up once more over the defunct Raymond Revuebar, all that’s left of the club where men and women used to act out the ageless tragicomedy of desire.
Strange — even blasphemous — as it may seem, the lurid blazon of a topless dancer in feathers and stilettos affected me like a holly-decked hall or a Slade-loud department store. ‘Personal appearances of the world’s greatest names in striptease’, spelled out in throbbing neon, made me come over all festive, Christmassy even.
I’m a sucker for the season with all the trimmings, and I’d be the first to complain if I heard a vicar on Thought for the Day co-opting porny old Soho into the greatest story ever told. What can I say — who’d have thought you could have a sudden rush of peace and goodwill beneath Paul Raymond’s guttering go-go girl?
It’s good to have her back again. It’s more than a decade since the doors finally closed on Raymond’s grotty cockpit of the flesh, at the north end of Rupert Street, W1. The joint had a makeover to suit Soho’s new USP as London’s gay village. Out went the storied Naugahyde banquettes and the token disc of disinfectant in the stalls. I realised hotly what the old gaff reminded me of. It was those cards in telephone boxes. The Revuebar was pre-op.
It has since been transformed into a more sophisticated, metrosexual hangout. But the sign, inexplicably and delightfully, was retained. As various nightspots and dives went dark a garter’s throw from the old stage, Fawn James, Raymond’s granddaughter and heiress to his West End property empire, took the decision to turn the signage back on.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in