Category: London

Riding the Mail Rail

Whenever we’re in London for our regular rendezvous with nearest and dearest, we try to fit in something a little different. And what could be more different than riding the Mail Rail? Back in the day when people still wrote actual letters, traffic gridlock in the smoky city was holding up the King’s mail. It just wasn’t on. The solution? Build a mini railway beneath the congested streets. From 1927, the underground mail train ran from Paddington in the west to Whitechapel in the east before hitting the buffers in 2003.

But that wasn’t the end of the line. Some bright spark at Royal Mail saw an opportunity to make a few bob, and Mail Rail opened in 2017 as a visitor attraction. We thought we’d give it a whirl. As we rattled along the narrow tunnel in the toy town choo-choo, the old subterranean world of the postie was revealed with fascinating audio-visual displays projected onto the curved walls of long-abandoned platforms. Then, quite suddenly, we shuddered to a halt and were plunged into total darkness. ‘Attention! Attention! Power cut!’ bellowed a fella with a Cockney accent over the tannoy. Liam looked worried. ‘Only joking!’ It’s not a trip for the claustrophobic – or the long-legged.

Our final stop was a tour of the nearby Postal Museum. Apparently, mail first became a thing for that old letch and all-round shit, Henry VIII, as a kinda medieval pony express for royal dispatches. No Truth Social back then. The stables used by all the King’s horses were called ‘posts’ – hence the origin of the word we use today. Who knew?

Although I’m way too long in the tooth to have been a fan of Postman Pat, that evergreen kiddies cartoon from the eighties, the entire experience brought out the inner child (or geek) in me.

As is my wont, I bought not one but two fridge magnets in the gift shop. Liam shrugged and sighed, as usual. And then I picked up something to read around the pool for our forthcoming Greek odyssey – assuming it’s not buggered up by you know who’s current war.

He’s Behind You – Again

This year’s winter has been more or less the usual tedious diet of dull and damp. So what better way to blow away the blues and lift the spirits than a festive pantomime, cross-dressed in glamour and glitter, sequins and smut? This year, we’ve rather overdosed on the panto lark with three – yes three – shows. First up was our annual pilgrimage to the daddy of all pantos at the London Palladium. The latest star-studded camp-fest was Sleeping Beauty, fronted, as usual, by the dowager queen of the double entendre, Julian Clary. As expected, the Palladium’s (and Julian’s) 10th anniversary show was lavish, lewd, and with a plot as thin as a Christmas twig. It was fabulous.

The magic continued with a thoroughly village affair – Cinderella, from the local Loddon Players in their 50th anniversary year. Fun and frolicky with talented turns, foot-tapping tunes and dazzling drag, it was the perfect antidote to the drizzle outside. It’s great to see community theatre flourishing in our small corner of the world.

Finally, panto season came to an X-rated close with the uber rude One Eyed Willy from the Adult Panto Company. The leave-the-kids-at-home show was a no-holes-barred (literally) belly-laugh romp bringing a ripe meaning to that time-worn panto phrase ‘he’s behind you’. Total filth, and we can’t wait for next year’s saucy spectacle.

London, City of Hope

We saw in 2026 with a proverbial bang at a house party thrown in style by two of our favourite village people. It was a banter-filled evening of merriment, with never-empty glasses, great grub and terrific company. As the midnight hour approached, Big Ben chimed in the New Year and we all crossed hands for an exuberant, if well-oiled, rendition of ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Thank you to our generous hosts with the most; you know who you are.

The following day, nursing the first hangover of 2026 (one of many to come, no doubt), we watched London’s epic New Year’s fireworks display – the largest in Europe – on the BBC iPlayer. As usual, the Mayor put on a spectacular pyrotechnic extravaganza of shock and awe. ‘How do they do that?’ said Liam.

London had a vital story to tell and it came through loud and clear – a profound message of fairness and inclusion in troubling times, a city of hope and a place for everyone – the perfect antidote to the flag-shaggers who diminish us all. Amen to that. Cue the video…

In a Galaxy Far, Far Away

I’ve never understood the enduring, almost religious appeal of sci-fi and superhero stuff – the comics, the blockbusters, the video games, the whole alternative universe. Ok, I admit I did enjoy the original Star Wars trilogy and loved the sixties Batman with Adam West as the camp caped crusader in budgie smugglers (I wonder why?). But that was back when I was young and easily aroused. These days, I much prefer a whodunnit – even better if it’s set in a quintessential caramel-coloured English village with a mad vicar with murder in mind.

But we were reminded how big the ‘super-verse’ has become when the circus came to town for Comic Con 2025 at the Excel Centre in London’s Docklands. Our East End digs for my 65th birthday extravaganza were occupied by a battalion of young superhero lookee-likees. A trio of dressed-up Star Wars jedheads joined us in the lift. As the doors began to close, one cried out, ‘Shit, I’ve left my light sabre behind!’ Down in the lobby, we were faced with a speeding bullet of supermen in full caped garb, rushing – though not flying – out the door, with Captain America and Darth Vader bringing up the rear.

Still, I guess it’s all good clean fun for the young and the young at heart. Much healthier than being seduced by the dark side of cybercrime, county lines, street gangs or religious fruitcakes.

Dancing Queens No More

As our birthdays are just two weeks apart, each year Liam and I tend to mark them together. Nowadays, as befits our budding dotage, our jollies resemble more of a pensioners’ outing than the bop-til-you-drop of our yesteryears. 2025 also marks me reaching my latest chronological milestone – 65 – so Liam planned some fancy ticklers to get me in the mood. First on the menu was a glass of overpriced plonk in a Canary Wharf wine bar followed by a surprise dinner date with family. We dined on Italian, washed down with copious amounts of gossip and scandal – naughty but nice!

 The next morning Liam took me up this…

… for a full-on full English with a show-stopping view at the Sky Garden. Perched on top of the Leadenhall Building – affectionately known as the Walkie Talkie – the Sky Garden is London’s highest public green space, with panoramic views of the city. It was a gorgeous crisp day with the sun hanging low in the wispy blue, so our snaps aren’t all that. But you get the picture.

After breakfast, we wandered through the City in a vain attempt to burn off the calories, passing ‘the Monument’, the enormous column commemorating the Great Fire of London of 1666, and then across the Thames to Southwark – pronounced suth-erk – via London Bridge. We strolled along the busy Queen’s Walk, passed HMS Belfast and through Hays Galleria before crossing back into the City via Tower Bridge.

Our final destination was St Katharine Docks, immediately downstream from the Tower. Once part of the Port of London, the docks have since been repurposed as a place to work, sleep, shop and sup, centred around an upmarket yachting marina. After a quick gander, we found a place to sink a bottle and watch the world sail by.

Afternoon drinking can be exhausting even for these two old lushes, so it was back to our Westferry digs for a kip. We had to be fresh and fragrant for the main event, which was…

This was our second visit to the breathtaking ABBA Voyage, located by the deliciously named Pudding Mill Lane Station. Our debut performance was in 2023 as part of a birthday bash for the good wife of our local pub’s (now ex) landlord. Back then, we wiggled about like has-been dancing queens to the ageless ABBA classics. This time round we booked comfy seats in the auditorium. This old codger has finally hung up his dad-dancing shoes, much to the relief of all those around. Well, I don’t want to put my back out.

Greek Intermission

While we’re away on our Greek odyssey clambering over old tumble-down stones trying not to break a hip, here’s a few of my pics that didn’t quite make the cut, mostly taken in or on the way to one drinking den or t’other. Yamas! 🥂

Spuds, Spies and Something for the Weekend

The renaissance of the iconic Battersea Power Station and its surroundings isn’t the only radical regeneration along the old Thameside rust belt. Virtually the entire south bank from Grosvenor to Vauxhall Bridges has been transformed by new fancy offices and posh flats along Nine Elms Lane. At the Vauxhall end once stood Market Towers, a typically seventies block with the Market Tavern on the first floor. It was added for the traders who fancied a pint or two after a hard day’s graft shifting spuds and sunflowers at the nearby New Covent Garden Market*.

Come the weekend, though, an altogether different trade was transacted. The pub doubled up as a gay bar, particularly popular on a Sunday afternoon because the boys just loved to booze and cruise after Sunday prayers. I should know, I was one of them. I misspent many an afternoon there during the nineties and noughties. As did Jean Paul Gaultier during his Eurotrash years. But I was never tempted to try my hand in the very ugly and very derelict Nine Elms Cold Store next door. Many a randy lad came a cropper cruising its dark and dank corridors. Plunging down an unlit crane shaft was not good for anyone’s health. Ironically, it was built on part of the 17th-century Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, which had pleasured Londoners for over 200 years. Both Market Towers and the Cold Store are now gone, swept away by redevelopment. Ah, the memories.

Alongside the ribbon of luxury riverside high rises sits the HQ of MI6, the UK’s spymasters, as featured in a number of James Bond films. And not far away is the new, fortress-like US Embassy, which looks like it sits on a lazy Susan. No doubt, both buildings are bristling with various top-secret ways to detect and deter, disrupt and destabilise. Is their proximity to one another just a coincidence? I wonder. Let’s hope they’re keeping us safe from Tsar Pukin and his deadly cronies.

MI6
US Embassy

*The old Covent Garden in Central London is now an uber-busy tourist hotspot, so you won’t find Eliza Doolittle flogging flowers and warbling ‘Wouldn’t it be Loverly’ on the steps of the Royal Opera House.

Lift 109 – What a Ride!

We like a spectacular view, and they don’t get much more spectacular than the view of old London Town from the top of one of the chimneys at Battersea Power Station. Back in the day, the coal-fired turbines lit a quarter of the city. But by the eighties, dirty old King Coal had been deposed by cleaner (though not clean) energy. Fully decommissioned by 1983, the magnificent building – one of the largest brick structures in the world – fell into near ruin. That was then.

This is now. The building has risen from the ashes, phoenix-like, repurposed for the modern age as an upmarket playground for the well-heeled. The magnificent turbine halls have been restored and are now stuffed with posh shops and designer eateries, with price tags to match. Take your plastic, you’ll need it.

The cathedral to power is the centrepiece of a Thameside renaissance along a lengthy stretch of the once-destitute riverbank. We alighted at the brand spanking new Tube station to an avenue of fancy flats, no doubt obscenely priced and not meant for ordinary folk. As we passed, we spotted a gang of hunky modern-day steeplejacks in hi-vis, hanging around and rubbing their shammies.

We were there for the main event, to ride Lift 109 up that chimney for that view. And we weren’t disappointed. With hardly a cloud in the sky, we could see for miles and miles. It was amazing. Liam had planned on whistling Chim Chim Cher-ee from Mary Poppins as our egg-shaped glass conveyance emerged from the stack, but he got distracted by the jaw-dropping wow factor, much to the relief of our fellow riders – and me.

And yes, we bought another fridge magnet.

Okay, You, One Sentence Should Do It

Our double anniversary has sneaked up on us again – 19 years since our eyes met across a busy West End gay bar fit to bursting with a gossipy after-work crowd, and 17 years since we got hitched. This year, we’ve decided to push the boat out and paddle down the Seine. Yes, we’re off to gay Paree for a gay old time. For these gay old timers, this means a gentle stroll along the handsome boulevards and a big slice of café culture rather than painting the town pink in our disco pants. Our tush shaking days are long gone.

In the meantime, I stumbled across this old Faceache post written by him indoors to mark our seventh anniversary. Liam was challenged to say it all in a single sentence and he did it in style. He wrote…

Seven years ago we met in that bar in Trafalgar Square, shared that Sloppy Giuseppe and over-priced Pinot Grigio, argued about the bill, eventually went Dutch, courted for months like a pair of 1950s Catholics (for heaven’s sake), collapsed out of exhaustion into the world of jiggy-jiggy (terribly messy but strangely exciting), fell madly in love, got married (nice suits), moved in together (delicious scandal), watched the curtains twitch (mostly nets), gave up everything sensible and moved to Turkey (what was wrong with Spain?), fell in-and-out-and-in-and-out of love with an extraordinary (no, challenging, misogynistic, homophobic, primitive and God was it cold – okay I loved it) place, you writing ‘that’ book, ‘that’ book getting critical acclaim and big sales (cha-ching) but ‘that’ book largely ignored by those close to us (discuss?), coming back to look after our own (good call), becoming poor, well poor-ish (bad call), discovering the great city of Naaaarwich (nuff said), having more jiggy-jiggy (apparently unnatural, but terribly good with central heating and an injection of Radio 4 LW), re-discovering UK culture like a long lost friend but afraid to tell the expats how wonderful it was in case it came across as boastful (fine line), you becoming ‘properly’ recognised as a ‘proper’ writer (hurrah!) not to mention radio star (OMG), me re-learning Bach fugues (they are SO hard to play, even harder than Mozart, you really have no idea how my fingers ache), both of us weeping like candles at the latest Cinema City flick (okay, mostly Dame Maggie and thank God for the discounted tickets and blood-warm Merlot at the bar), getting over-excited about that converted railway carriage in miles-from-nowhere (yes, I could wash my bits in a sink with a view like that), improvising those make-shift nappies during the messy norovirus days (thank you Blue Peter and Morrison’s super-padded 2-for-1 kitchen towels, we owe you), people-watching at the Playhouse and longing to be young (clearly, we need to avoid Death In Venice comparisons here), gasping at Bonnie Langford’s amazingly flexible crack (and boy, can that Dolly can write a tooone) but most of all, keeping our focus, always, on making sure our glass is resolutely full. I’d say it’s been an extraordinary seven years, husband.

Pantos and Parties

Storm Darragh barrelling across angry skies couldn’t keep us from our annual panto and party pre-Christmas pilgrimage to The Smoke. The London Palladium pantomime this year is Robin Hood, starring the outrageous queen of high and low camp, Julian Clary, and his usual cast of merrie men and women. The vocal act is Jane McDonald – every pensioner’s favourite cruise-line crooner – as Maid Marion. And the likely lass from Yorkshire can really belt out a tune. Lavish, filthy and with a plot as flimsy as a Christmas twig, the show is a belly-laugh sacrament that’s become a firm festive fixture for these two village people.

The gusty winds and horizontal rain drove us into various watering holes to dry off and warm up. Everywhere was rammed. But even these two old merry men don’t drink before midday, so we spent one morning wandering around the splendid Museum of Science, one of the holy trinity of world-class museums along Exhibition Road in South Kensington – the V&A and the Natural History Museum being the other two must-sees. Like the pubs, the various galleries were rammed, not with dripping trippers but with wide-eyed kiddies in backpacks and waterproofs. It’s a fascinating place to spend a few hours, whatever the weather.

We also had the good fortune to catch up with family for much-missed hot gossip and to meet the latest editions to the clan – twin girls. And gorgeous they are too! It made these two old festive fairies very proud great uncles.