Back Beat a Drag

I shelled out £50 for a ticket to Back Beat at the Duke of York Theatre on Monday night. The show turned out to be an assault on my senses, with air conditioning blasting cold onto my skin, and the performers blasting Beatles' songs at ear-scorching decibel levels.

Most offensive to my delicate sensibilities was the cigarette smoke pouring from the mouths not just of the Fab Four, but even from minor and non-speaking cast members. Though the smoking was, no doubt, designed to provide ambiance of the time period, there simply was no need to inundate the first ten rows of a twenty-first century audience with a continuous belching rancid fog.

By intermission, my throat was burning, my clothes reeked of smoke, and I could hear other audience members crabbing about the toxins. No wonder Back Beat is closing two weeks early!

Typical London.

Snowed by Transport for London

Saturday, after stops at the Memorabilia Bazaar at the Cinema Museum, and dinner with friends in Camden, I began my journey homeward at 11:30 p.m., under a modest snowfall. In spite of the weather, Transport for London was reporting no problems on my Piccadilly Line home.

From Finsbury Park, I caught a northbound train at 12:30 a.m., expecting to be tucked into bed in under an hour. Then came the delays, first at Manor House, and then Wood Green, Turnpike Lane, and on and on and on. Signal failures, trains further up the line stuck in the snow, queues to pull into stations. As the night wore on, my patience wore thin, snapping entirely at Oakwood when the train waited for nearly twenty minutes, its door wide open, snow and freezing wind blowing into my compartment.

At 2:45 a.m., over two hours later, my train crawled into Cockfosters, a mere 10km from my starting point at Finsbury Park. My bitterly cold message to Transport for London: if your precious trains and moron drivers are unable to handle a few inches of snow, then suspend the whole damn service and run replacement buses instead!

Typical London.

Lovestruck at Gilt Bar

I attended the Lovestruck singles' night at Gilt Bar on January 25. There I was confronted by the sight of lonely Londoners pathetically seeking sexual validation from total strangers of the opposite gender.

The men were the usual assortment of white collar types, with varying degrees of baldness and obesity. The women were carbon copies too, in flimsy black dresses, clunky platform heels and rotten orange spray tans.

As the night wore on, the most attractive prospects paired and left, and the level of desperation increased palpably. I made a merciful exit at 10:30 p.m., with Lovestruck having struck a sour note with me.

Typical London.