Another Nail in Soho's Coffin

    The other day I walked down Dean Street to The French for an afternoon drink. It was rather drizzly and I had worked up a thirst traipsing around trying to find a bank so that I could do some boring bits of business.

    Outside The French was a crowd of boorish young men yahooing and showing off for each other, several were smoking those recently-fashionable glass things that resemble thick, ugly thermometers. I ventured inside, where it was quite gloomy and just my style. A few people clustered around the bar engaging in friendly banter. Two men from behind-the-scenes in television sat at the corner of the bar talking about various projects they were working on at the moment. I ordered a glass of beer from the sullen blonde girl with pigtails, in her early-twenties. She poured it out with bad grace and slammed it on the counter in front of me, slopping a few mouthfuls onto the bar. I withdrew my proffered £5 and asked her to top up the glass. She huffed her annoyance but did as I asked. Then she snatched the note and rummaged in the till for my change, which she thumped onto the counter without a word. I took my glass over to the side wall and sat on a stool to eavesdrop on the television people. The ugly one with glasses was saying,

   “The thing with Robert is that he takes ages to get going. But once he has learned his lines, no one can touch him. And he's terrific at finding his marks on set. He’s a marvel. Suzy was the same when she did that thing for us with Karl. You know, sometimes you just have to give them space so that they can transform.” The other man, a small blonde-haired queen with coal black eyes nodded.

    I got up for another beer. I had seen the young barmaid sullenly stomp off upstairs for the rest of her shift, and now a sandy woman in her late-thirties was presiding behind the bar. She was Irish and she greeted the customers like long-lost friends. Not me, however. She stared coldly at me as I ordered another beer and then turned on her heel to fill my glass, returning it to me quite a bit short of the rim. I stared at the shortfall until she said, “Oh, let me just top that up for you.” I nodded and she did so. I resumed my stool beside the tv men, who were now pointing out the art-world luminaries in the photographs around the walls. They picked out Francis Bacon, of course, and Lucian Freud, but they were stumped by the black and white shot of one wizened-looking old geezer. They asked the Irish barmaid, who had no idea who it was either. I was happy to inform them.

   “It’s the photographer John Deakin.” I said.

   “Oh, of course!” said the coal-eyed, blonde tv dwarf.

    “And who is that?” asked the barmaid, clearly ruffled that her dominion over the venerable premises had been proved wanting. I explained who he was, and why he was so important in the scheme of things where Bacon was concerned. The barmaid grunted something and tried to change the subject.

    The ugly tv man now said to me, “Oh, it’s such a great shame that those old Soho days are no longer with us. Can you imagine how amazing it would have been here in the fifties and sixties?” I was about to concur when the Irish barmaid broke in, “It’s no use wishing for how it was once. The fact is that things change. I’m actually glad things are different now. There are a better sort of person who comes through here now. And thank god for all of the tourists. They are the real heart of Soho nowadays. All of that romantic bullshit about artists and that bohemian rubbish is such crap anyway. I’m glad to see the back of it, frankly.” She might have seen the contempt as it swept across my face because she then segued into a rambling tale about her sister’s holiday house in Spain and how one used to be able to buy a really cheap property, but now everything is through the roof. It was a stultifyingly boring monologue which killed all conversation dead due to her very loud, braying voice.

    I quickly downed my beer and rose to leave, pausing as I did so to lean across the bar and say to the Irish witch, “Francis would be turning in his grave to hear the way you speak in here.” She looked non-plussed and it then occurred to me as I stepped onto the pavement that she probably had no idea who I was talking about. I walked down Dean Street in the drizzle and felt rather depressed.