London

Monday

Joe Rogers

Drinking with James Bond

James Bond’s most impressive talent is not his prowess as a spy or his skills of seduction. It’s his ability to always get exactly what he wants at the bar. In the 1954 novel Live and Let Die he orders a round of Old Fashioneds while on a train to meet Felix Leiter, his CIA opposite number. Not only does the buffet car make them for Bond, they even have his preferred brand of bourbon, Old Grand-Dad. You try pulling that sort of thing on the Acela from Penn Station to DC. ‘Sorry Solitaire, they wouldn’t do us a cocktail, but I’ve got a cup of Lipton’s and a bag of pretzels.’ We’d all like to drink like Bond but, lacking his miraculous powers, we need to be in the right sort of bar to do it.

bond

Thursday

Cosmo Landesman

Americans, London needs you

‘Nobody wants to admit it, but London was boring even before the pandemic — and it’s still boring now!’ I said. We were at a London drinks party. The guy retaliated with a smirk and that old Dr Johnson line, ‘He who is tired of London, is tired of life.’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not tired of life — I’m tired of people who always quote Dr Johnson when you make some slightly disparaging remark about London!’ I dislike that Dr Johnson quote because it assumes that you can’t be genuinely tired of London; your discontent must be due to your own boring, miserable life and not because London has become an overpriced, culturally exhausted and soulless city — which it has.

London

Wednesday

Taki

The lost magic of Palm Beach

Good old Helvetia. I’m quitting her for the rainy but pleasant land of England. The cows are beginning to resemble chorus girls and the village an Alpine Colditz. Too much of a good thing, said a wise man to a friend of mine who wanted to live on the French Riviera all year round. That was long ago. The South of France is a shithole these days — and a very expensive one at that. The real Riviera now lies far away from the coast, up in the hills: Saint-Paul-de-Vence and its environs. The rest of the Côte d’Azur, where Russian and Arab gangsters have bought all the great houses on the water, now reminds me of Baku, where, at the turn of the last century, the Great Game was being played between Russia, Britain and Germany, with Basil Zaharoff triple-crossing all three.

taki

Monday

Hannah Moore

I miss America’s sandwiches

When I was 16 I told my father I wanted to leave America to go to university in Scotland. His only real concern was the food: ‘I don’t think you know what you’re getting into.’ His run-in with British cuisine was in the 1970s, so little wonder. Sure enough, the food in the student halls of St Andrews was worthy of Oliver Twist. If it wasn’t slabs of fatty gammon, already cold in the tray, it was a tepid, oozing excuse for lasagna, harboring hard lumps of ground beef and grainy béchamel sauce. And then there’s haggis. I loved everything about my four years at the tiny university town on the frigid North Sea coast, except for the food. That all changed when I moved to London, and I have to hand it to them — Londoners do know how to eat well. The world’s cuisine is here.

Sandwiches

Thursday

Mark Mason

The marvels of the Connaught Hotel

You may have noticed the Connaught Hotel a little more since 2011, when ‘Silence’, the steamy fountain by Japanese ‘architect philosopher’ Tadao Ando, was installed outside the entrance. But actually the hotel doesn’t want to be noticed. It prides itself on guaranteeing famous guests their privacy. Eric Clapton added his own layer of protection by checking in as ‘Mr W.B. Albion’ (he’s a fan of the soccer club West Bromwich Albion). Alec Guinness valued its discretion, and was annoyed when Jack Nicholson’s stay during the filming of Batman attracted the paparazzi. The hotel in turn had its own issues with Jack and his entourage. As the star put it to a friend: ‘They have a shit fit every time we walk through the lobby with jeans on.

connaught

Thursday

Susan Hill

Things go flying

There are fashions in the paranormal as in everything else. Since the famous Enfield hauntings of the late 1970s, poltergeists seem to have gone quiet, or at least unreported; but before then they were everywhere. In 1938, poltergeists kicked off in Thornton Heath, Surrey, and a Jewish Hungarian journalist and psychic investigator, Nandor Fodor, was alerted to strange happenings in the home of a 34-year-old housewife there. The list of happenings is familiar in all poltergeist stories. Furniture moves, light fittings shatter, crockery, money, knick-knacks, even small pictures are thrown through the air, sometimes seemingly aimed directly at individuals.

alma fielding

Thursday

Samantha Rea

How to spot good French wine

‘If you swill it around, you look at the legs of the wine — we’re in the Naughty Room, so I’m sorry to talk about legs again!’ exclaims Prince Robert of Luxembourg, alluding to our saucy surroundings. We are tucked away in a bijou risqué room at 67 Pall Mall, a London private members’ club for wine lovers. The Naughty Corner, as it’s known, is adorned with erotic paintings, and a miniature sculpture of a naked man has been turned away from us. While members must be approved, there was little chance of Prince Robert being blackballed. His family owns the French wine estate Chateau Haut-Brion, the oldest of the great growths of Bordeaux.

good wine

Sunday

Revd Steve Morris

The sorry history of London’s Hoover Building

In the early Thirties, when impoverished Americans were cramming into shanty towns called ‘Hoovervilles’, another Hoover created an industrial building of rare magnificence in west London. Driving into London from Heathrow airport, we see acres of nondescript suburbs. The Hoover Building at Perivale, about five miles from the West End, still astounds. Set back from the road in well-manicured gardens, this art deco masterpiece rises in brilliant white (due to the use of a cement called Snowcrete), its façade laced with angular green trim and sunburst decoration. The Hoover Building was the British factory of the Hoover Company, the Ohio-based vacuum-cleaner manufacturer.

hoover

Sunday

Cleo Roberts

Statues and limitations

Statues do more than monumentalize individual achievement. They embody the self-image of those who raise, cherish and preserve them. It is this common self-conception that is being upended by the wave of iconoclasm that is sweeping through American cities. The race to raze structures that have stood untouched for decades or centuries disturbs because, instead of reassessing the past, it attacks it to reorder the present. Wherever you stand on this, the ‘debate’ is limited by Western visual traditions and stunted by patchy education. In Wisconsin, the abolitionist Hans Christian Heg was yanked down. In San Francisco, Ulysses S. Grant, a president who set the US Army on the Klan, was deposed. In Washington, DC, Gandhi, once praised by W.E.B.

statues

Friday

Maggie Fergusson

Literarily a love affair

I thought I could never feel fond of Charing Cross Road, London. In 1988, when I was 23, I spent a miserable three months there doing a typing course on the bleak first floor of a building next to the Garrick Theatre. Secretarial instruction was delivered over headphones to classrooms full of women and as I tried to follow the disembodied tutorials my fingers kept slipping and jamming between the keys of a hefty, black manual typewriter.Fortunately for me, just as the course was finishing, a job as subeditor at Harpers & Queen fell into my lap.

hanff

Monday

The Spectator

The haunting beauty of empty cities

COVID-19 has a horrid ability to turn fiction into fact. Deserted modern cities are usually the realm of post-apocalyptic sci-fi movies. Now, many of us live in them. The world's greatest streets are dramatically empty; suspended suddenly in a dream-like quiet. It's eerie and also very beautiful. We usually often don't notice how remarkable our cities are the commotion. We are distracted by the crowds, the commotion and the congestion. Now it is hard for urbanites to notice anything else. The Spectator has looked around the world, and asked various writers in various places to describe where they live in lockdown.

empty cities london

Friday

James Evans

Cosmopolis

Every history of London, and there have been many, has looked at the importance of migration to the city. Failing to mention that would be as inconceivable as not mentioning the River Thames. Both, after all — one literally, the other metaphorically — flow directly through the city’s heart. In this new and scholarly study, the difference is that London’s history of migration — its patchwork of settlement, its Irish ‘rookery’, its ‘colored quarter’, Huguenot silk-weavers, Jewish street-sellers, German bakers, Italian waiters, Chinatown, Banglatown — is put center-stage. The movement of all these people to London, the city’s extraordinary national, then continental, then international pull, is the story.

migrant

Wednesday

Dominic Green

Trump is saving Nato

It’s almost Nato as usual when Emmanuel Macron calls Nato ‘brain dead’. It’s Nato as usual, and Donald Trump as usual, when Trump, who not long ago called Nato ‘obsolete’, chastises his bromantic partner Macron for being ‘insulting’ and ‘disrespectful’. It is unusual for Nato when Trump calls off a press conference and calls blackface artist Justin Trudeau ‘two-faced’.

nato

Sunday

Caroline McCarthy

A beginner’s guide to the narwhal

You may be thinking, at this particular moment, about narwhals. It’s unlikely, but it’s more probable than it would have been a week ago, given the improbable insertion of the toothed whale species known as Monodon monoceros into the current news cycle. In a horrific incident that left two dead, a knife-wielding terrorist on London Bridge was stopped from further destruction in part by a man brandishing a five-foot-long narwhal tusk. (They’re not cheap weapons, on that note.)This opened up a litany of confessions on Twitter in which plenty of otherwise sane adults admitted they didn’t think the narwhal actually existed.

narwhal

Wednesday

Martin Vander Weyer

There’s no need to mourn the loss of Uber’s London license

Early experiences of Uber in London did not encourage me to become a regular user. My first driver thought I wanted to go to Birmingham when the ride had been booked from Clapham to Mayfair. The next was a furious driver who would have seen off Lewis Hamilton at Hyde Park Corner. Call me old-fashioned, but I still prefer the pottering black cab with its opinionated Essex-dweller at the wheel and the possibility of paying in cash. So my own modus operandi is unaffected by Transport for London’s decision not to renew Uber’s license in the capital and I’m not in the least upset about it. OK, life today is all about apps, cashless convenience and the individual’s right to make choices and take risks.

uber

Tuesday

Godfrey Elfwick

Rejoice in the birth of the gender-neutral penguin

It’s the news every LGBTQ individual has been waiting for. The penguin community has finally openly embraced non-binary and genderqueer identities by allowing keepers at The Sea Life Centre in London to bring up a penguin baby as gender-neutral (presumably until they are old enough to decide themselves whether to go ahead with hormone treatment). I am tremendously excited at this news and will be monitoring the progress of the infant over the coming years. According to experts, pre-pubescent penguins are naturally gender-neutral. You could prove this by dressing a penguin who was assigned female at birth in a pink frilly dress, they will show their discomfort by violently flipping around in the water until the dress falls off.

gender-neutral penguin

Thursday

Roger Kimball

The joys of Independence Day in London

Dr Johnson, who was right about so many things, was certainly correct about London: when a man is tired of London, he said, he is tired of life. I have been in that great metropolis for the last few days and I am once again impressed by the truth of Johnson’s declaration. Not for the first time, however, I find myself asking myself why I am so impressed. Plenty of other cities have conspicuous charms. Paris, for example, is in many ways more beautiful and picturesque than London, more patently sensual, not to say sybaritic. New York is more virile and commanding. But London, for a Yankee like me, exercises a special fascination. One of these days I will sit down and try to plumb the lineaments of that fascination.

london independence day

Monday

Titania McGrath

My terrifying journey into the dark heart of far right comedy

If you find yourself laughing at stand-up comedy, it probably isn’t sufficiently progressive. This is why I’ve been so disturbed lately to hear about Comedy Unleashed, a popular monthly event in London that claims to oppose censorship and promote ‘free-thinking’ comedians. As anyone who cares about social justice knows, concepts such as ‘free thought’ and ‘free speech’ are typical racist dog whistles of the far right. To confirm what I had already decided, I went undercover to infiltrate this den of crypto-fascism with my good friend Yohann Koshy, whose devastating account of the goings-on at the club has since been published by the online magazine VICE.

far right comedy