Glittering London

London town

Goodbye fading homosexual obscurity, hello shiny blocky boutique hotel!

Shoreditch Highgate Hotel. Definitely not Chariots Roman Spa.

Shoreditch’s glittering Chariots Roman Spa – a place where you could unclog your oversized pores while getting bummed rotten – is to close in a matter of weeks. Which is days in old money.

London’s largest gay sauna is being raised to the ground to make way for a boutique and, like, some office shit. And, according to this render, it’s going to look like a key fob we made in CDT sometime in the early ’90s while listening to Lisa Stansfield’s Real Love album on our Sony Walkman. The teacher was barely qualified to run up his own pullover so he was hardly going to come out of a designer-imposter bag for putting on a bit of tip-top blue-eyed soul…

‘Gentrification gone to the dogs!’ said someone, almost probably.



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Who wants to be among the first to experience the roof terrace of London’s coolest hotel along with a bunch of gays?

It could be you!

If you find yourself in London’s edgy Shoreditch tomorrow – or even within reaching distance – then we have one for you.

Jake, a group designed to enable gays to have nice drinks in nice environments, is helping London’s probably coolest hotel, The Ace, to launch its roof bar/terrace-type thing. That’s it right there. Nice, right?

For the cost of just £10 on the door – or two for a similar price if you go online – you will get a). in b). a free drink, if you don’t pitch up too late and c). access to some of the most glittering gays in all of the capital. Oh, and this view.

It starts at 6.30pm and goes on until the last man standing and you can find out all about it/buy your tickets here. And don’t mind what anyone tells you it’s not a). all men in suits (though there are some for you suit fetish people) b). a membership thing and c). and d).

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We would like to take this opportunity to remind Chiltern Firehouse of what happened to The Box when they started letting in any old Tom, Dick or Two-Bit Tart.

We would like to take this opportunity to remind Chiltern Firehouse of what happened to The Box when they started letting in any old Tom, Dick or Two-Bit Tart.

Chiltern Firehouse – The Round Table at The Algonquin meets Muriel’s Kitchen on Old Compton Street – is the place to be. So much so, ‘the’ should be in italics.

Everyone who is everyone and some people who are no-one at all have been, chomped on the Crab Linguine as Princess Beatrice took up more than the one seat, worn all the right sunglasses, laughed like they meant it at André Balazs’ jokes – sometimes even twice! – before cartwheeling away right in front of the braying paparazzi and into a waiting Uber, condescension just so. The Wolseley, frankly, doesn’t know what to do with itself.

But it all has the whiff of The Box to it. You know, that place in London’s glittering Soho where, for a giddy six months, only the knobbiest of hobs would go to sip premium tequila, gawp at really shit sex shows that were less Granny Smith up a bloke’s arse, more ‘here is a tit’, and mix with real-life gays. It was the stuff of which anecdotes perfect for West London dinner parties were made. These kids’ kudos was off the Sunday Times Style barometer!

But what started with Kate Moss quickly became an ES Magazine spread. Before they knew it, the heavyset royals (see above) came and then, dear reader, Kylie and Sinitta. It has never recovered.

Which is where these two come in. One is Danielle Lineker, the designer-imposter Yasmin Le Bon, the other is Jackie St Clair, former schtupp of Simon Cowell. Together they are a quarter-page feature in OK! magazine, and they have just left Chiltern Firehouse. One of them is even under the impression a waistcoat is outerwear. They are what is known in the business as a slippery slope because, let’s face it, Cara Delevingne doesn’t want to sit next to a woman who owes it all to Walkers’ Crisps.

Oh and yes, of course we’ve been. How else do we infuse our copy with such integrity?


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Joanna Lovely’s Garden Bridge across the Thames gets the go-ahead!


Here it is! It goes between Temple on the north bank and the South Bank (obviously). It is designed by Thomas Heatherwick, who did the lovely new red double deckers and the Olympic torch and… oh, lots of lovely things. And it has been pushed through by Joanna Lumley off-of Ab Fab, who wanted a bridge that would remind her of the mist draped forests of Malaysia. Which is a coincidence, because that’s what we wanted as well! Jinx!

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How cool is this etcetera? London, 1927 vs London, 2014

The only major differences appear to be skyscrapers, traffic lights, and buggery ugly cars on the never-never.

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Big London, Little London, Big London, Little London, Big London, Little London, Big London, Little London. Try saying that with a mouthful of Hendrick’s.

Big London, Little London, Big London, Little London, Big London, Little London, Big London, Little London. Try saying that with a mouthful of Hendrick's.

Hot on the corky wedges of Ripley’s Believe It Or Not! – it’s a toss up between that or a Portuguese tapas bar – comes what is being described by thousands of tens of people as London’s next great tourist attraction.

It is Little London, and it’s a model of Big London.

‘Little London’s centrepiece will be the Panorama; a vast and fully-interactive scale model of central London, complete with thousands of moving buses, taxis, trains and boats, millions of working lights and moving parts, and a myriad of individual characters illustrating the fascinating stories of London’s past and present,’ says the bit we cut ‘n’ pasted direct from the website. We might even write a letter telling them how to use ‘myriad’ correctly.

‘Dick Whittington and Boris Johnson will parade as Mayor (in rather different styles); Jack the Ripper will stalk the streets; The Beatles will play on Savile Row’s rooftops; buskers will perform on the Southbank; shoppers will queue outside Harrods; films will premiere in Leicester Square; the Colours will be trooped and the Guard will change – all in brilliant miniature.’

The picture used to illustrate this piece shows the model of the Royal Albert Hall, which is well nice. Our friend lives in that red flat.

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The Stonewall Awards. The winners and non-winners.

The Stonewall Awards. The winners and non-winners.

Anyone who is anyone and some people who are no-one at all were at last night’s annual Stonewall Awards – which they really should think about holding every year – at London’s glittering V&A. You can lose yourself in the Miniatures Room!

Attended by the likes of us – and Jodie Harsh and Gok Wan, as screen-grabbed from the Daily Mail up there alongside their usual attention to detail – it celebrates those in the media who have been particularly kind to *checks notes* gays over the past year, with categories including Hero of the Year, Publication of the Year and Bigot of the Year (booo, hiss, booier, hissier). It’s the GLAADs with more wit and less money. And Fizz off Coronation Street.

There now follows the list of winners. We’d write a pithy comment next to each – for example, next to the Antony Cotton one we’d say something like, ‘What, for perpetuating the stereotype that all gay men can’t so much as say “Eileen” without a mince?’ – but we’ve got a train to Paris to catch. Those chocolate-covered croissants don’t get here by themselves!


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This is what London looked like 350 years ago. We can smell it from here.

Remember the days when you could leave your back door open and only get your throat slit by a rag ‘n’ bone man high on snuff and gin looking for a stuffing for the worst pies in London while flicking off to an artist’s impression of Nell Gwyn’s orange? Happy days.

Now you can get all misty-eyed with this fly-through of 17th Century London, thanks to some clever chaps and non-chaps over at De Montfort University who created this award-winning 3D ep’ of Location, Location, Location focussing on Pudding Lane just before the Great Fire of *checks notes* London in 1666. Which is no relation to the year England last won the World Cup, which people really need to get over.

Using maps at the British Library, software by Cyrtek (we have no idea what that means but it’s forcing us to believe it) and signs from actual inns and Burberry boutiques as featured in Samuel Pepys’ laugh-a-minute diary – ‘We couldn’t put it down!’ said Grazia – the project has just won the Off The Map competition.

And if anyone’s come over all Daily Mail and is thinking, ‘Ooh, didn’t we have it better back then. The country’s gone to the dogs!’ then just imagine wandering under that Tudor gem and a wad of shit landing on your syphilitic weave. Charles II was a hoot, though.

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