POLPO..SOHO...UH HUH...OH YEAH

 

A time honoured, old faithful London wheeze has always been to Wander Down Olde Soho Towne on a weeknight and get metaphorically battered (...and on this night...literally) with your supercool mates. Theres always a white haawwt no-reservation speakeasy or charcuterie bar just opened, more than likely rocking a postindustrialvintagehipsterchic vibe and the ubiquitous moody lighting.

 

I love the Venetian bacaro Polpo on Beak St, tucked away in the same rickety building in which Venetian painter Canaletto used to reside. Get in! It ain't no Colony Club but its the next best thing.

 

 

 

 

 

COCAINE KATE

Hot Dang!!! Got about a hundred posts to catch up on before my imminent departure from this green and pleasant land. Lets start with Miss Moss...disdainfully referred to as Kate Moist by the Highgate intelligentsia who suspect she lowers the tone - having the gall to impose her sordid rock n roll presence on one Samuel Taylor Coleridge's rickety old mansion.

I was first seduced by Miss Moss's entrancing features via Corinne Day's low-fi fashion photography in a 1990 issue of seminal style publication The Face. The cut glass cheekbones, dreamy wide-set eyes, pneumatic poutastic lips exposing a wonky vampire grin and heroin chic styling were a revelation after the boring glamorous razzamattazz perfection of the '80s. 

Corinne Day's photographic style helped put La Moss on the map and signalled the beginnings of what would evolve into the riotous epoch known as Cool Britannia, soundtracked by Britpop, diseased by Tony Blair. These images appeared last year in a small show at Mayfair's Gimpel Fils Gallery celebrating Day's iconic and innovative photographic style. Day sadly died of a brain tumour aged 48.

 

 

The later images of old Mossy were honest and brave, graphically depicting a real woman looking every one of her 38 years. These enormous close-up shots were especially notable in our image-obsessed world, increasingly relying on the artificiality of Photoshop to make YOU feel insecure so you will BUY MORE SHIT. Don't believe the bullshit peeps. Even Kate Moist has crows feet. And don't they look charming.  

 

 

 

 

OXFORD

Montague Withnail: Laissez-moi respirer longtemps, longtemps, l'odeur de tes cheveux!
Ahhh, Baudelaire. Brings back such memories of Oxford! Ooohh, Oxford!!

I: [Voice-over] Followed by yet another anecdote about his sensitive crimes in a punt with a chap called Norman, who had red hair and a book of poetry stained with the butter drips from crumpets.

So much mythology surrounds Oxford, from the whimsical mutterings of Montague Withnail to Evelyn Waugh's glorious betwixt-the-wars tome Brideshead Revisited. Battling my way this summer through the multitude of international students and goggle-eyed tourists, I was lucky enough to spend one (admittedly draughty) night in the halls of the impressive Magdalen College (above).

Magdalen remains one of the wealthiest and most traditional of Oxford colleges, where black tie is still worn in the great hall for dinner and each student retains the services of their own personal tutor for the duration of their scholarship. Alumni includes the likes of Oscar Wilde and Louis Theroux as well as the doppelganger of *a certain notorious child killer who shall remain namelss for fear of a defamation suit* (just Google it, he looks exactly like him) and equally evil current Tory Chancellor George Osborne. Just jokes Georgie, old chap. No need to sue, I'm afraid I've not got thruppence to spare what with all your austerity measures, you privileged ponce.

George....love's young dream?


The perfectly manicured quadrangles of Magdalen college were spectacular, as was the ancient stone architecture punctuated by medieval gargoyles and decaying golden archways (below). The easel randomly perched among the shadows seemed to just appear oasis-like in the middle of a production designer's wet dream. Whatsmore, the fine high-ceilinged room I kipped in (where students of Osborne and Wilde's ilk presumably 'slummed it') was at least four times the square footage of my entire London flat. Oh George! Why has thou forsaken me?

The infamous open-topped tourist buses pootle about Oxford's impressive town centre, the great unwashed masses admiring all the history, tradition and privilege they could never experience on a ticket they can barely afford. Not that we're bitter George.

The sweetest irony of all had to be seeing these right-on political posters (below) once so integral to the student experience in that antiquated pre-social networking fairytale world of yore. Presumably its all Tory Totty facebook groups these days, along with Spencer and Charles' real-time mad ketamine bender tweets. I mean...Marxism 2012!! George must really be tittering about that one.