London – City Of Excess
When you think about excessive or decadent cities you tend to think of Berlin, but either I’m doing Berlin wrong or it’s nowhere near as excessive as London, a city which Frank Harris described as like a bedraggled woman you turn from in disgust, only to discover she has undreamed-of depths.
Londonâ€™s allure is paradoxically the engine of its repulsiveness. Social inequality is at the root, of course; the slums of Shadwell and The Jago created overcrowding and vice, while the stifling parlours of Chelsea bred boredom and the desire to philander. It was hardly surprising in a city where artists could wax lyrical about the shroud of smog settling on dingy backstreets, while ordinary workmen died in its miasmic filth.
In London the great outdoors was virtually indoors (no longer, as it seems determined to develop a cafe society despite the weather). Those who could afford indulgences were able to use the services of those who could not. So the Wilde set worked their way through the townâ€™s tarts, guardsmen and post-boys – and might not have been pilloried had they thought to tidy their hotel rooms – while Sohoâ€™s disorderly houses provided married gentlemen with â€˜a sleeping room for self and ladyâ€™.
Pornography was for the posh, of course, sold through antiquarian book dealers with obscuring titles like The Spreeish Spouter or Flash Coveâ€™s Slap-Up Reciter.Â Many of the newspapers dumbed down into smut and sensationalism, and fears about the nationâ€™s binge-drinking culture greatly exercised those in authority.
The revelry at the St Jamesâ€™s restaurant nightly spread onto the street, where gangs of drunk young men would attempt to barge their way past the bouncers. In 1893 Aubrey Beardsley told his publisher he was going out dressed as a tart and planning a spree, although the slang-usage of the time probably suggests generic debauchery rather than transvestism.
In this London, desperate socialites held court in the cigar-fug of the CafÃ© Royal, and it’s not hard to sense the fragility behind their brittle laughter; you can find plenty of drawings of hollow-eyed bohemians who looked every bit as haunted as the streets they inhabited.
Too much has been written about Wilde, Beardsley and various brothel raids, but one difference between London past and present lies in the quality of those who faced exposure. Prince Albert Victor might have been sighted at the Hundred Guineas club signing in for a night of debauchery under the name of Victoria, but the man in the street didnâ€™t care, any more than modern-day teenagers find Kim Kardashian less of a role model for being exposed on the internet. (Youth, as they say, is not an achievement.)
The age-old story of London was always that of the wily old splosher who lifts her skirts for high-born gentlemen. If there’s one thing that has changed about decadent London, it’s that it is much more egalitarian now. You can go to Torture Garden whether you’re from Belgravia or Essex.
It wasn’t just about ladies of the night, though. Londonersâ€™ desire for excess resulted in buildings like Watkin’s Tower, the â€˜London Stumpâ€™, an absurd Eiffel-like edifice intended to reach a height of 1,150 feet, but which only managed to reach 150 feet before being demolished to make way for Wembley Stadium. We sought extremes in everything, from the intense quality of our brawling and whoring to the roughness of our entertainment, where dancers aimed their highest kicks at wealthy patrons and prostitutes touted for trade in the music halls.
Londoners, it seems, have always been a bunch of dirty-minded beasts, never more so than when seeking a night out in the â€˜scented whirlwindâ€™ of the theatre. The painted women of the stage had an automatic association with sin, and the managers of the Alhambra and the Empire Theatre in Leicester Square happily admitted prostitutes to the promenades so long as they were smartly dressed and â€˜respectableâ€™.
â€˜The most noticeable characteristic of the audience is the very slight attention it pays to whatever is going on upon the stage,â€™ wrote one journalist. As today, attention was fixed upon shiny surfaces and self-indulgence, while always appearing to be bored. The sensual delights of West End nights were brought to a close by a pair of visiting puritanical Americans, who unsportingly reported their experience to the National Vigilance Association.
In the battle between manners and morals, a compromise was reached that pleased no-one; a screen was erected between the Empire audience and the â€˜women of objectionable characterâ€™, and was promptly torn down by cheering vandals who included the young cadet Winston Churchill, up for a night on the town.
London took its decadent pleasures seriously. The sumptuous CafÃ© Monico was patronized by the â€˜better class of foreignersâ€™, and remained in business from 1877 right up until the end of the 1950s. (It’s back in Shaftesbury Avenue now – see above).
Solferinoâ€™s, Romanoâ€™s and Kettnerâ€™s (where I have thrown a great many parties) were founded by Europeans who seemed quite content to bring their Frenchified ways with them, providing trysting spots for horny strangers along with champagne and fine dining. Wilde and his renters cropped up in the red velvet salons with the depressing ubiquity of soap stars.
There was a price too pay for all this decadence; the main players nearly all passed away between 25 and their late forties. Perhaps itâ€™s the cost of living in a city where pleasure is always a business.
And in that London/ Berlin comparison, perhaps one excess always belongs to Europe; the lateness of the hour. London’s expensive activities, art and architecture belong as much to the day as the night.