It's a London Life

Growing up in my grandparents house meant we were greeted every morning by a moody, squint-eyed, cigar-chomping, stetson-wearing cowboy, staring down at us from his position above the gas-fire. Shee-it, I must have seen that picture on a daily basis for at least 15 years. A couple of decades later and The Man With No Name is still with us, dissing 'the pussy generation ' and telling us how it is, in this month's Esquire magazine. Most noticeably of all ol' 'No Name' reveals a zen-like mastery of the creative process with platitude such as: ' "We've come this far, let's not ruin it by thinking." Children teach you that you can still be humbled by life, that you learn something new all the time. That's the secret to life, really -- never stop learning. It's the secret to career. I'm still working because I learn something new all the time. It's the secret to relationships. Never think you've got it all. We were doing In ...

At college I thought Architecture was the chosen course for dreary middle class morons but 20 years hence I find myself marvelling at Prague's Baroque churches, Ancient Rome's Parthenon, the cliff-hugging marvels of Positano and even the floodlit NFT on the Southbank. So, of course, last Thursday night meant a trip to the Barbican for the 'Le Corbusier' exhibition. What to expect from a person who calls themself 'Le Corbusier'? A certain pretense, peut etre? Well, I wasn't disappointed. Whilst strolling around the first floor of the exhibition a gentlemen next to me suddenly started to declaim ("I am an acrobat of forms, player with forms ...") from the balcony in a mid-atlantic accent as a mournful flute joined in. And was that a discordant piano turning the duo into a trio? It was indeed. How fantastic. A post modern (remember that term?) musical performance (of Xennakis) during a modernist architectural exhibition in the Barbican. It all fell in...

Sometimes living in London is the shits ... and you wonder why we do it. Then there are times that I think it's the greatest place to be. Today it's the latter. So I'm working at an agency down on the river Thames behind the Globe theatre at London Bridge and I'm wondering what to do for lunch as I don't feel particularly hungry, so I decide to go for a walk around Tate Modern. I've done it many times before so nothing new there. What is new is that for once, somebody has decided to hang some fantastic art on those huge walls. I say for once because for a year it has been completely uninspiring and bland but not anymore. So why not pop down there (missing out the Turbine Hall) and go straight for the third floor and feast your eyes on some fantastic paintings that you may never have seen before e.g. 'Tobacco versus Red Chief' by Jean Michel Basquiat(which is much more impressive than this jpeg may suggest).You can see whatthe Carnegie museum says about i...

Primrose Hill is an amazing place to live. What's more we now have our own piste, if only for one day. To recap: It's Monday 2nd February, it's been snowing all night (as predicted for days before), and in the early light just before dawn (7.45am) it's still snowing. What to do? Get out there and make the most of it, of course ... When I got to the top there were already 20 or so children and parents who quite natutrally had decided that they we're going to have some fun and take the day off. As you'd imagine, with no piste grooming facilities it was real back to basics stuff, but pretty soon there were a couple of jumps and things got a bit more lively... But by 9.30 am, and with hundreds more people recklessly throwing themselves down the hill on sheets of cardboard, plastic, trays, whatever ... it was time to leave the latecomers to it.

When our world-famous almost-neighbour (Ssshh! You now who) finally moves into his new (basement & 1st floor maisonette, the cheapskate) house in the 'secluded leafy environs' of Primrose Hill, I bet he never expected that his neighbours would install a hedge in the shape of a very large cat that is lit at night with large red eyes and a diamante collar ... ... why did they do that? The most interesting answer on the back of a digital postcard wins my bootleg dvd copy (courtesy Knock-off Nigel) of 'Defiance'. Miaow, ^ ^ (@@) \ ( )

Gor blimey, an old boozer, with great food, in the middle of Mayfair? You wouldn't Adam an' Eve it, guv'nor! I needed somewhere in town to have a smallish (10-12 people) surprise birthday dinner where there was good food, good atmosphere, but no poncey pretensiousness (so any Gordon Ramsey place was out for this evening), and just a frisson of celebrity endorsement for desert. And somewhere we hadn't been to before ... So I spoke to a couple of geezers, got on the blower, and rang 'The Punchbowl', in Farm Street, in London's Mayfair. And got their biggest table straightaway. Sorted! And how was it? Well, you find it down a backpassage (oo-er), through the ubiquitous smokers outside, and enter via a small, packed (always I Imagine?) bar, hoping correctly that the space at the back is the dining room. It's reasonably dark in that old dark-wood, yellow-tinged-walled pub fashion, that seems to have gone out of fashion, but is still warm & friendly, whi...

A cold Monday night in October normally means a night in front of the box hoping to find something watcheable, but not this Monday (20th October 08). Oh no, tonight means that the angular, concrete environs of the National Theatre on the Southbank beckon. And may I say how good that concrete looks now. Lit by bluish uplighters it really seems to have come into it's own. A concrete monstrosity no longer ... At the bar I ask the barman if I can order drinks for the interval. The barman replies affirmatively but adds that it's not necessary as tonights show is only 65 minutes long. Result! Better one good hour, than 3 hours of badly edited tosh* . A positive omen indeed. The soft-furnished seats of the the Lyttleton are another positive, and the site of numerous blubber-mountains trying to squeeze into them adds a wry piquancy. Is that 'Oedipus' (Ralph Fiennes) two rows in front? By jove we're are indeed bless-ed. And so to the theatrical/dance performance of In-I , st...