The Disreputable W1!
So, you’re at a grand party in a Park Lane mansion and get a bit tipsy. Seducing a beautiful woman, you tiptoe to a bedroom with her. In the morning, by way of thanks, you send her a diamond. Unfortunately it turns out to be one of the German Crown Jewels, which are not yours to give. The Kaiser is angry, the lady refuses to return the gift, an international incident threatens to break…
It’s just another day in the life of a London home, this one being Grosvenor House, owned by the Duke of Westminster. Once it was filled with art that included seven Rembrandt portraits. Now it’s filled with reps getting hammered while Jimmy Carr presents advertising awards. London’s present isn’t what it used to be.
Yes, I’ve been at the research again, and here are a few other London snippets I’ve uncovered about the history of the West End, which could be defined as that area loosely covering Marylebone, Fitzrovia, Soho and Mayfair – anywhere with a W.1. postcode. (Bloomsbury remains genteelly aligned to Holborn, and St James’s is too royal to be described as ‘up West’.)
A Mayfair address has never been an assurance of good behaviour, even if the ladies changed their outfits four times a day. When Hitler-acolyte Ronnie Greville, whose husband had been part of Edward VII’s circle, handed Bacon, her paralytic butler, a note at her dinner party that read; ‘You’re drunk. Leave the room at once’, Bacon promptly passed it on to Tory grandee Austin Chamberlain, who sat in silent mortification for the rest of the night.
In Fitzrovia, the WAM Nina Hamnett (Writer, Artist, Model) slid from glamorous confidante of Picasso, Diaghilev and Cocteau to dissipated dipso, finally throwing herself onto spiked railings after becoming convinced she’d been slandered in a radio play.
Over at the Fitzroy Tavern, where Hamnett drank, the house cocktail created by Aleister Crowley was a Kubla Kahn No 2 – gin, vermouth and laudanum. Beat that, Soho House.
In Regent Street, pseudonymous oriental drug peddler Brilliant Chang (the first name was popular in Victorian times, the surname was slang for cocaine) was hunted down by police even as idolizing women ran their fingers through his hair, and London society was shocked when West End nightclub doyenne Kate Meyrick was sentenced to jail for serving liquor without a license, mainly because no-one had ever seen her in broad daylight before.
In wartime West End, Fascists controlled every aspect of Italian life in London until blacklists weeded out many, including the manager of Claridge’s hotel (a sad story that needs more coverage here one day), and waiters from the Ritz were ejected mid-shift.
The area’s polyglot nature proved a natural draw for a broad variety of cultures, and Americans always fascinated. The US army’s intelligence boys, described as being like ‘jeune filles en fleur straight from a finishing school’, trained their agents in Berkeley Square and lived where Ian Fleming was to write his spy novels. At least they didn’t leak our secrets to their press back then.
London’s West End owed much of its reputation to the sensational headlines of the Sunday papers, who gleefully reported back whenever toffs behaved poorly in nightclubs, a habit they continue to this day. The likes of Colin MacInnes and Muriel Belcher were legendary in terms of notoriety, but I’m not sure that tales of Soho’ Colony Room members drunkenly shouting ‘Fuck off’ to other soaks amuses much today. The hard-drinking raconteurs who barely mask their desperation and the watering holes that can’t be lively without displaying a nasty side are still in evidence, but these days belong to the Bridge & Tunnel crowd. What’s missing now is the scale of ambition that allowed the owner of Soho’s Gargoyle club to hire Henri Matisse and Edwin Lutyens to jazz up his decor.
London’s streets don’t change their character from one century to the next. Mayfair was aristocratic, Soho misbehaved, Fitzrovia was bohemian and Marylebone could only be dull. Once there were guidebooks to the sporting ladies of Covent Garden and Soho, including this from a 1788 edition concerning Miss B at 18 Old Compton Street: ‘In bed she is all the heart can wish…every limb is symmetry, every action under cover truly amorous; her price two pounds.’
Dostoevsky was disgusted by the harlots of the Haymarket, but the French whores of Maddox Street were admired by police for being brisk, clean and businesslike. London conducted a schizophrenic relationship with its rentable ladies, but Soho’s gay quarter was not always so tolerant. After a raid on the White Swan pub near Oxford Circus in 1811, six men charged with intent to commit manly fun were pilloried with bricks and dead animals, while Charing Cross pubs had signs warning ‘Beware Of Sods’.
Through history everyone from William Blake to Jeffrey Archer has used W1 for naughty adventures. Verlaine described his London environs as ‘black as a crow and noisy as a duck’. One West End robbery was so famous and redolent of an Ealing comedy that it ended up getting mentioned in ‘The Ladykillers’. Everyone has their own experience of London W1, and to this day it retains a shade of disreputability, despite the virtual destruction of Soho.