Famous places down the street where I work The Japanese Embassy (101-104 Piccadilly)
Whatever the weather the rising sun is often to be seen floating above lower Piccadilly. It shines from the flag hanging out from the front of the Japanese Embassy, an imposing six-storey four-entrance building overlooking Green Park. It's home to His Excellency Mr Masaki Orita, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary (presumably 'Mas' to his friends). You can also pop inside to view the Japanese art exhibited in the foyer gallery, or make enquiries at the Japan Information and Cultural Centre (maybe they can tell us why their women are so good at running marathons in high temperatures). It's the only embassy to lie on Piccadilly itself, but a number of others lie nearby.
All of which makes this area a perfect location for spying (note to lawyers: there is no implication that the upstanding people of Japan would ever stoop to espionage). MI5 used to be located just round the corner in Curzon Street, first at Leconfield House (1945-70), which was fortified with gun ports in case German paratroopers ever dropped into Mayfair, and later in Curzon Street House (1976-95), home to 2 million files on suspected subversives. A little further away lies tiny Audley Square where Soviet spies would communicate with one another by chalking numbers on the lamp-posts. Eon Productions, the film company responsible for the James Bond films, used to be based at number 3 and it was here that Sean Connery fought off stiff competition from Roger Moore, Cary Grant, Rex Harrison and even Noel Coward to land the lead role in the first 007 spy film, DrNo.
I'm just back from a long weekend in Norfolk, which has involved travelling through the delightful market town of Diss. Stupid name for a town, but some of the local businesses have been creative and used it in their company name. Below are all the 'witty and hilarious' business names I can find in the Diss version of the Yellow Pages - can you flex your creative muscle and think up some more? And, while we're at it, just down the road lies the tiny Suffolk town of Eye. They're a pretty unimaginative bunch in Eye at the moment - can you do better?
Your best ideas so far have been added below. Any more?
Famous places just off the street where I work Shepherd Market
I'd never discovered Shepherd Market before I worked down Piccadilly, which is a shame because it's a little backstreet gem. It's an irregular maze of Georgian passageways, now home to a fine selection of antique shops, restaurants and wine bars. Wander round here any lunchtime and you'll find smiling businessmen and their lady friends sat at tiny tables on the pavement enjoying some expensive nosh. You'll probably also stumble across a number of prostitutes because this off-road enclave has long been one of London's top red-light districts. Back in the 1760s Kitty Fisher charged the aristocracy 100 guineas a night to sample her special services, whereas when Jeffrey Archer picked up Monica Coghlan here two centuries later it cost him two grand and his career.
Prior to Shepherd Market being laid out in the 1730s, this area was just an expanse of open fields on the western edge of town. Here was the site of London's notorious MayFair, a drunken saturnalia from which the surrounding district now takes its name. These riotous annual celebrations lasted a full fortnight from May Day, attracting wild revellers from all over London and the home counties.
Within a few decades the local area became the built-up affluent suburb of 'May Fair', ill-suited to such bawdy revelry as this. The Earl of Coventry successfully petitioned Parliament to get the fair closed down, claiming that it caused an annual disturbance behind his new residence at 106 Piccadilly. The May fair was forced to uproot itself, moving eastwards to Bow where the yearly vice and violence continued unabated until the 1820s on the banks of the river Lea. But that's a local story I told you in last year's local history month...
Olympic hopes dashed Who's to blame for our Paula losing the marathon?
• Pheidippides - the Greek messenger who ran 26 miles from Marathon to Athens in 490BC to warn the Greeks of an imminent Persian attack. Had he popped down to the local beach for a spot of sunbathing rather than running over some nasty hills instead, our Paula would have been saved today's embarrassment.
• Baron de Coubertin - the French baron who founded the modern Olympic games in Athens in 1896. Had he not decided to commemorate Pheidippides' 26 mile run by inventing the marathon, our Paula would never have swapped events and would therefore still be on course to win gold in the Women's 10000m next Friday instead.
• The International Olympic Committee - the corrupt gathering of ageing geriatrics who voted seven years ago to select the city in which this Olympic Games would be held. Had they picked some temperate high-latitude city to host the 2004 Olympics rather than this Mediterranean hothouse then Paula would have swanned round the course without breaking into a sweat.
• George Souflias - the Greek public works minister who oversaw the exteremely late-running construction of the marathon course. Had he had both the time and the money to install a sprinkler system over the roadway and to build a tunnel underneath the really steep bits of the course, our Paula would now undoubtedly be clutching a gold medal.
• American TV companies - the corporate behemoths who hold sway over the timings of various Olympic events. Had they not demanded that the marathon start at 6pm Greek local time in order to suit the viewing habits of the all-powerful American TV audience, then the race could have started later in the evening when the heat wouldn't have been on our Paula.
• The parents of all the other competitors - the international couples who all had sex at exactly the right moment to unite one athletic egg with one super-stamina sperm. Had they practised contraception a little more effectively then no prodigious offspring would have been born and our Paula could have walked round the course unopposed.
• Paula Radcliffe - the brilliant athlete who used to go to my school. Sadly on the day when it counted our Paula just wasn't the best, so she lost. It's not fair though...
Famous places down the street where I work The In And Out Club (94 Piccadilly)
This rather impressive building set back from the road is (or was) Cambridge House, built in 1760 for some dull Earl. In the mid 19th century it was home to patriotic ViscountPalmerston, the oldest man ever to become Prime Minister. He used to walk from here to Westminster to work despite taking up office at 70 years of age. He was much admired by the nation but strongly disliked by Queen Victoria, who was relieved when that nice Mr Gladstone took over ten years later in 1865. Palmerston died within months, and his house was bought up by the recently-formed Naval and Military Club.
It costs £1500 to join these days, plus an annual subscription of £810, and blackballing still occurs. The Naval & Military was nicknamed the 'In and Out Club' because of the large black letters painted on the gate posts at its entrance and exit to help direct incoming traffic. The letters are still there, although the club moved out to St James's Square five years ago. The building was subsequently snapped up by an Arab buyer, and there are now plans to transform it into a 100-room hotel. Not quite so classy now, alas.
• We've been very slow to start winning medals, haven't we? This is not entirely surprising, given that there are only three medals in each event and we are one of over 200 competing countries, but for some reason it always amazes the media who seem to think we have a God-given right to win everything. Prepare for even more 'Olympic hopes dashed' headlines in week 2. We may not be as far up the medals table as we' like but, when you have less than 1% of the world's population, lying just outside the top 10 isn't at all bad.
• We only seem to be able to win medals in watersports and the really obscure. Had you ever heard of synchronised diving or yngling before this week? I think not. And this is probably the last time badminton and kayaking will appear on prime time BBC1, for the next four years at least. No sign at all of TV's usual sporting fare - football - but then Great Britain hasn't got a team in that.
• Winning a medal at the Olympics seems to be less about being excellent and more about not buggering up by transgressing one of the obscure laws by which each competition is run. Don't kick illegally on the turn, don't take more than 45 seconds to start, don't stray a millimetre into the wrong lane and don't whatever you do drop the baton. One tiny mistake at the wrong moment and years of preparation are wasted. The best athlete doesn't always win, but then whoever said sport was fair?
• Have you seen the white-haired bloke and the mystical brunette by his side playing at being the gods of Olympus in those epic BBCi promotional adverts? Is it just me, or do they look like the couple pictured on a 1970s Mastermind game box?
• Never mind, Paula's along tomorrow.
Famous things down the street where I work More tourists
At the weekend, Piccadilly becomes even more of a tourist street than during the week. All the office workers are miles away back in suburbia, all the upper class are off shooting on their far-flung estates, and so the tourists have the street to themselves. And the touts (sorry, local craftsmen) take advantage of this by setting up stalls along the length of the park fence and flouting their wares to gullible passers-by. Just look at the range of oil paintings in flashy gold frames for sale on this particular stall. Perhaps you fancy a view of the Thames as a souvenir of your visit to ye olde London? Or maybe you'd prefer a cottage garden, or a veteran car, or a bowl of fruit, or any number of ghastly pieces of derivative artwork each available at a knock-down price from the shifty looking blokes parked up by the roadside? Or perhaps not. The street is trying so hard to be an English version of Montmartre, and so failing. Best avoided I think. Come here on a weekday instead, and then perhaps spend your weekends in Paris buying proper art.
I have new neighbours, both in the flat beside me and in the flat above me. I rarely meet any of my neighbours, which is the way I like it, but I did meet both of my old beside- and above-neighbours and they were jolly decent blokes. And well-behaved and quiet, with no obvious bad habits. The last three years have therefore been really rather pleasant, living in an oasis of calm despite my proximity to one railway line and two major trunk roads. The worst intrusion either of my old neighbours ever directed through my walls was a puddle of water, and that had initially come from the flat above them and they were deeply apologetic about it. And now they've moved out. The great Neighbour Lottery machine has been switched on, the balls have dropped and my random replacements have been selected. There are no jackpot winners this week.
The flat beside me is now home to two women, both of whom smoke. Being fairly sensible women they don't like nasty cigarette smoke in their house so they sit out on the balcony and smoke their rollups there. Alas their smoke then wafts into my flat even if the door to my bit of the balcony is closed, which at this time of year it usually isn't. Their balcony, though small, used to be neat and tidy with well-kept hanging baskets. Now it's home to a wide selection of garish ladies' clothing hanging out to air, plus a cheap green plastic table on which sits a 50p lighter and an empty IKEA tealight full of cigarette ends. It's not the kind of view one might wish for.
The flat above me is now home to a couple of hippopotami. At least I assume this to be the case given the noise that now originates from just above my ceiling. The previous occupant, a keen rugby player, used to walk about his flat without making a sound. Not so the hippos who appear to be unable to move around upstairs without making the floor vibrate like a localised earthquake. Goodness knows what they're doing up there, but it probably involves jumping off the furniture and running up and down the hallway in Dr Marten boots. They held a party upstairs last weekend, flatwarming no doubt, standing out on their balcony yelling directions into a mobile phone so that other visiting hippos could find their way here. I went out for the evening - it seemed the safest thing to do. And now I have a horrible suspicion they've unpacked the hi-fi because I've heard music through the ceiling for the first time in three years. I have no idea what the music was because all I got was a thumping bassline (maybe a Flanders and Swann remix?), but hopefully they'll discover the volume switch soon. In the meantime I'm off to my parents' detached house in Norfolk for the weekend - there are no hippos there.
Famous things down the street where I work Tourists
Piccadilly is one of those places that every tourist to London visits. That's along with Big Ben, Buck House, LondonEye, Mr Sherlock Holmes, Nelson Square, Heath Row and The Harrods. But most of these tourists seem to be here in Piccadilly. They're everywhere, and they walk at tortoise pace if they bother to walk at all. You can't walk out of Green Park tube station without bumping into some lost soul lumbering towards a nearby hotel towing a huge wheelie suitcase behind them, or a gaggle of foreign students blocking the pavement with their enormous backpacks. Tourists with strong exchange rates frequent the nearby boutiques and arcades snapping up non-essentials by the bagful, while Americans just window shop and wish the dollar was a little stronger.
And you can't walk out of Green Park station after ten o'clock in the morning without being accosted by a leaflet from the doubledecker sightseeing bus touts. This is touristbus central, with gangs of drivers and guides lined up by the ugly concrete wall alongside the park waiting ten minutes for their next scheduled service to depart. Just £16-£18 gets you a seat on an open-topped omnibus for a hop-on hop-off tour of the capital, plus a free plastic poncho if it rains. It rained the one time I took the tour, but I still refused to be seen riding through Mayfair in corporately-sponsored clothing. Of course, if you really want to see London and Piccadilly you can do it for just a quid from the top deck of a number 9Routemaster. But ride quickly, because the route gets taken over by nasty modern boxy buses in a fortnight's time.
Your life = 100% What percentage of your life is spent experiencing the following?
Summer Olympics = 2 weeks every 4 years = 2/208 = 1% The Olympics = 2 fortnights every 4 years = 4/208 = 2%
Football World Cup = 1 month every 4 years = 1/48 = 2% Football season = 41 weeks a year = 41/52 = 79% Cricket season = 22 weeks a year = 22/52 = 42%
US Presidential Election = 10 months every 4 years = 10/48 = 21% UK General Election = 1 month every 4 years = 1/48 = 2%
August = 31 days a year = 31/365 = 8½% Monday mornings = 12 hours a week = 12/168 = 7% Friday afternoons = 6 hours a week = 6/168 = 3½% Weekends = 2 days a week = 2/7 = 29% Bank holidays = 8 days a year = 8/365 = 2%
Christmas = 12 days a year = 12/365 = 3% Retail Christmas = 2 months a year = 17%
Wet days (London average) = 113 days a year = 113/365 = 31% Days with sunset after 8pm = 30 Mar - 8 Sep = 162/365 = 44% Days with sunset before 6pm = 30 Oct - 23 Feb = 116/365 = 32%
Sleeping (heavy) = 8 hours a night = 8/24 = 33% Sleeping (average) = 7 hours a night = 7/24 = 29% Sleeping (light) = 6 hours a night = 6/24 = 25% Dreaming = 25% of sleep = 7% Eating = 1 hour a day = 1/24 = 4% Breathing = 100%
Famous places down the street where I work Langan's Brasserie (Stratton House)
Sorry, more food. We're a couple of buildings north of Piccadilly here, in newly-resurfaced Stratton Street next to Green Park tube station. Langan's Brasserie is, perhaps not surprisingly, a brasserie founded by Peter Langan. Words such as 'flamboyant', 'charismatic', 'eccentric' and 'inebriated' have been used by some to describe the original proprietor (now deceased) and the interior decor reflects his personality. Michael Caine used to be co-owner here but sold up his share a few years ago. The restaurant's had its ups and downs over the last 27 years but is now on the up again, and is famous for being frequented by the famous. The English/French cuisine is affordable and of a high standard, so I'm told, should you ever fancy a night out stargazing. Yesterday's handwritten lunch menu featured calves' livers and bacon (£15.50) downstairs in the main restaurant, while the dish of the day upstairs in the Venetian Room was roast leg of lamb (£16.50). Me, I went to Benjys over the road instead and did lunch for £1.80.
Famous places down the street where I work Green Park
You couldn't fault this open space under the Trades Descriptions Act - it's green, and it is indeed a park. Green Park is one of London's eight Royal Parks, with 40 acres of trees and grass gently sloping down from Piccadilly to Buckingham Palace. It's a peaceful place where sport is banned, more suited to strolling, slouching and sunbathing, and at this time of year it's usually full of office workers taking an extended lunchbreak. There are fine avenues of lime and plane trees, plus a couple offountains and a lot of deckchairs, but otherwise the park is pretty featureless.
In 1749 King George II erected a Temple of Peace here, part of the celebrations for the end of the War of Austrian Succession. The composer Handel was commanded to compose a little something and responded with the magnificent Music for the Royal Fireworks (you'll know the tune if you've ever been to a wedding). 24 oboes and 12 bassoons were assembled in the park for the first performance, along with 9 trumpets, 9 horns, 6 timpani and a lot of cannons. Unfortunately the fireworks caught light prematurely, setting fire to the temple which promptly exploded killing three onlookers and injuring hundreds of the distinguished audience. The same piece of music was played here without adverse effects a couple of years ago to accompany the Queen's GoldenJubileefireworks, and I still hoard a bit of charred rocket I found in the park the following morning.
I hate... the new Blogger Navbar. That's the thin strip complete with Google search that Blogger has suddenly imposed overnight across the top of everyone's template. Why do they keep introducing new innovations without announcement, then telling us afterwards that they "may cause display problems... unfortunately we do not provide support for these issues"? I've had to alter my template to shift this evil invader upwards so that it doesn't obscure the top 40 pixels of my page. I'm particularly annoyed because two years ago, back when it was still possible, I paid good money to have all the adverts removed from the top of my blog. Now Blogger are revoking that agreement and forcing me to sacrifice screen height just like every other freeloader. Thank goodness one of the four Navbar options is silver, but it's still an ugly imposition. I hate you I hate you I hate you, and I hate to think what evil marketing tool you have planned next. (But no, I'm still not risking Moveable Type)
Famous places down the street where I work The Ritz (150 Piccadilly)
Every tourist to London knows about The Ritz, but only a select few get to stay here. It's the capital's most exclusive hotel, so the management would have you believe, although that doesn't necessarily make it the best. The Ritz is huge, six stories high and then another two in the roof, towering over Piccadilly like a giant ocean liner. Top-hatted footmen guard the entrances, sneering politely at the clientele and keeping the passing rabble at bay. Take your pick from the Ritz Hotel, the Ritz Restaurant or the Ritz Club, and please don't forget to wear a tie (ladies, this probably doesn't apply to you).
The Ritz owes its existence to its main competitor - the Savoy. Richard D'Oyly Carte opened the Savoy Hotel in 1889, importing chef Auguste Escoffier and hotelier César Ritz from France to ensure its glittering success. And glittering it was. Ritz soon reckoned he could strike out on his own and so opened two eponymous hotels, the first in Paris in 1898 and the second in London in 1906. Piccadilly was the perfect location, within parading distance of all the places that high society might want to be seen, and soon famous faces from politics, stage and screen came flocking. Included on that list were Charlie Chaplin, Aristotle Onassis and Noel Coward. Every suite was decorated differently in elegant Louis XVI style and the kowtowing service was second to none.
More recently The Ritz descended into a mockery of its former self, snobbish for snobbery's sake, until rescued by the reclusive Barclay Brothers in 1995. The hotel has a ratio of two staff to every guest room, which sounds a bit excessive to me but I guess it's useful if you ever need someone to help you slip on the complimentary bathrobe while someone else fetches breakfast. You'll also find a jewellers, a gentleman's barber, a ladies hairdressers with a 7th floor view, a bar with Lalique panels and a casino with red drapes, just to save you ever having to go outside. And then there's that English institution, tea at the Ritz, a snip at £32 so long as you don't mind nibbling on cucumber sandwiches and booking weeks in advance. Crackers.
What's wrong with breakfastcereals these days? They've polarised into two types - cereals for adults and cereals for children. And virtually nothing inbetween.
Cereals for adults are dull and boring, as I discovered last Friday morning when I turned up for a corporate residential breakfast in deepest Hertfordshire. There were six desperately bland 'adult' cereals to choose from - Corn Flakes, All Bran, Bran Flakes, Alpen, Weetabix and Shredded Wheat. We were able to liven these up with a few dried apricots and other assorted fruits, but someone in catering had clearly decreed that only tedious inoffensive cereals were appropriate for serious adults over the age of 20. If it didn't protect you from heart attacks or keep you regular, they didn't serve it. Thank goodness there was a traditional cooked fry-up to follow or I'd have starved.
And then there are cereals for children - a completely different kettle of fish altogether. Cereals for children have to be sugary with bits of marshmallow attached, complete with glitzy packaging and free gift promoting the latest Disney character. Anything to inspire the 'nag factor' as mum drags her unwilling kids through the local supermarket. These cereals have virtually no nutritional value whatsoever but are still heavily advertised as providing 'energy' (for which read 'increased waist size' instead). Cereals for children have always been bad for you, particularly my special childhood favourites of Coco Pops and Golden Nuggets, but they've got a lot lot worse of late. Cookie Crisps, Hunny Bs, Coco Shreddies, Minibix With Chocolate, Frosties Turbo - all these seem to be sponsored by private dentists with a long-term career to secure. Sure children these days get better free gifts in their cereals than we ever dreamed of when we were young, but it might be more appropriate to give them dental floss and exercise videos instead.
So, all I ask is for a cereal that's interesting without being really really bad for my teeth and waistline. As it is I have no cereal brand loyalty at all, flitting from box to box, crossing the adult/child divide until my tastebuds tire and I move on to someting completely different. I'm eating some squirrel-promoted chocolate square thing at the moment (mainly because it was on a 2-for-1 offer) but I don't think I'll be buying it again. Maybe you have some ideas for decent alternatives. Please don't suggest healthy mueslis because I'm not a hamster. Please don't suggest any form of cornflake because I can never finish the last mushy spoonfuls. Please don't suggest mini variety packs because they cost a fortune for eight tiny portions. And please don't suggest half a grapefruit because I need feeding of a morning.
In the meantime, why not test your nutritional knowledge of cereals below. Here's a list of some of Kellogg's most well-known products. Can you guess which of them has the most/least sugar, fibre, fat and salt? Bet you can't get them all right. Highlight the blank text after each question to read the answers.
The Kellogg's 7: All Bran, Coco Pops, Corn Flakes, Frosties, Fruit 'n Fibre, Rice Krispies, Special K.
Most sugar? Frosties Least sugar? Corn Flakes
Most fibre? All Bran Least fibre? Rice Krispies
Most fat? All Bran Least fat? Frosties
Most salt? Corn Flakes Least salt? Coco Pops
There are surprisingly few works of public art down Piccadilly. In fact, between Eros at the top end and the Wellington Monument at the bottom, this statue is about all there is. It's called Horse and Rider, and it's stood on the corner of Dover Street and Piccadilly since 1975. The sculptor is Elisabeth Frink (1930-1993), one of the greatest 20th century British artists you've never heard of. She's particularly respected for her expressionistic figures of men and horses, of which this bronze is a particularly fine example, inspired by the wild horses of the Camargue. Lis also created work for the J F Kennedy Memorial in Dallas in 1964, was made a member of the Royal Academy in 1977 and became a Dame of the British Empire in 1982. It's sad now to see one of her best works hemmed in on the pavement by the littered tables and plastic chairs of a high street coffee chain, but at least Horse and Rider is still on public display. Better latté than never.
BowRoadupdate: It's been six months since the first portakabin and blue wall appeared at Bow Road Station in readiness for proposed extensive renovation work. Six months in which, as it turns out, virtually nothing of any consequence has happened. Now Metronet, the infrastructure consortium, are crowing that the transformation of Bow Road Station is finally underway with the erection of a giant "Green for GO" sign on one of the walls outside the station. Presumably we've been on AMBER for the last six months, with fat cat contractors raking in huge sums of public money in return for knocking up a few blue walls and erecting copious safety signage. I am deeply unimpressed. Anyway, here's what the new poster tells us Metronet are promising to achieve by next Autumn Spring, along with a report on how much they've achieved so far:
• "A new ticket hall" (progress - zero)
• "New passageways" (progress - none visible)
• "Improved station lighting (new overhead cabling has appeared along half of each platform)
• "New signage" (tons of it, alas all temporary)
• "New platform edge tactile strips)" (progress - zero)
• "New platform seating" (progress - none visible)
• "New CCTV" (new cameras have been installed in stairwells)
... and that's it. That's all we local residents will be getting in return for more than a year of disruption by the time this fiasco is complete. I suspect Metronet's shareholders will be beaming rather more broadly.
Famous streets off the street where I work St James's Street
South of Piccadilly lies the district of St James's, a gentleman's enclave on the fringes of Royal London. The area owes its exclusive status to St James's Palace, built in the 1530s by that quintessential English gentleman King Henry VIII. Monarchs lived here for the next 300 years, and the royal court also moved in after the Palace of Whitehall burnt to the ground in 1698. It's not a particularly magnificent building on the outside, and rather cramped on the inside, so George IV chose to move out in favour of nearby Buckingham Palace. Only the Princess Royal and Princess Alexandra still choose to live here today, but St James's Palace remains the official residence of the UK sovereign.
St James's Street runs uphill from Pall Mall and the Palace to Piccadilly. It's an old street and two 18th century shops still survive, both beautifully maintained. One is Berry Brothers and Rudd the wine merchants, whose enormous cellars can hold eighteen thousand bottles of wine, and the other is Lock's the hatmakers, inventors of the original bowler hat. Almost as old are the shops of Lobb's the bootmakers and Truefitt & Hill, hairdressers by Royal Appointment to the Duke of Edinburgh (so they can't be kept particularly busy).
18th century St James' Street was also home to a number of celebrated chocolate and coffee houses, such as White's and the Cocoa Tree, which have since evolved into exclusive gentlemen's clubs. There's Boodle's once notorious for its gambling, there's White's with its famous bow window, there's Brook's whose founder was buried under the club floor to escape creditors and there's the Conservative Carlton Club, whose members had to declare Margaret Thatcher an 'honorary man' to maintain their tradition that every Tory leader is made a life member of the club. Two years ago, when the CountrysideAlliance came to the capital, hordes of rural protestors massed down St James's Street marching for Liberty, Livelihood and the right to shoot cuddly animals. The road was a sea of green Barbours and musty tweeds, and I saw many a young fogey pop into their favourite London club for lunch or a swift beverage before proceeding on their way to Whitehall. Must say, I haven't seen any of them since.
Famous places down the street where I work
Whatever the weather the rising sun is often to be seen floating above lower Piccadilly. It shines from the flag hanging out from the front of the Japanese Embassy, an imposing six-storey four-entrance building overlooking Green Park. It's home to His Excellency Mr Masaki Orita, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary (presumably 'Mas' to his friends). You can also pop inside to view the Japanese art exhibited in the foyer gallery, or make enquiries at the Japan Information and Cultural Centre (maybe they can tell us why their women are so good at running marathons in high temperatures). It's the only embassy to lie on Piccadilly itself, but a number of others lie nearby.
Welcome to the Creative Lounge
I'd never discovered Shepherd Market before I worked down Piccadilly, which is a shame because it's a little backstreet gem. It's an irregular maze of Georgian passageways, now home to a fine selection of antique shops, restaurants and wine bars. Wander round here any lunchtime and you'll find smiling businessmen and their lady friends sat at tiny tables on the pavement enjoying some expensive nosh. You'll probably also stumble across a number of prostitutes because this off-road enclave has long been one of London's top red-light districts. Back in the 1760s Kitty Fisher charged the aristocracy 100 guineas a night to sample her special services, whereas when Jeffrey Archer picked up Monica Coghlan here two centuries later it cost him two grand and his career.
"In the areas encompassing the market building were booths for jugglers, prize-fighters, both at cudgels and back-sword, boxing-matches, and wild beasts. The sports not under cover were mountebanks, fire-eaters, ass-racing, sausage-tables, dice-tables, up-and- downs, merry-go-rounds, bull-baiting, grinning for a hat, running for a shift, hasty-pudding eaters, eel-divers, and an infinite variety of other - similar pastimes."
Olympic hopes dashed
This rather impressive building set back from the road is (or was) Cambridge House, built in 1760 for some dull Earl. In the mid 19th century it was home to patriotic Viscount Palmerston, the oldest man ever to become Prime Minister. He used to walk from here to Westminster to work despite taking up office at 70 years of age. He was much admired by the nation but strongly disliked by Queen Victoria, who was relieved when that nice Mr Gladstone took over ten years later in 1865. Palmerston died within months, and his house was bought up by the recently-formed Naval and Military Club.
It costs £1500 to join these days, plus an annual subscription of £810, and blackballing still occurs. The Naval & Military was nicknamed the 'In and Out Club' because of the large black letters painted on the gate posts at its entrance and exit to help direct incoming traffic. The letters are still there, although the club moved out to St James's Square five years ago. The building was subsequently snapped up by an Arab buyer, and there are now plans to transform it into a 100-room hotel. Not quite so classy now, alas."Naval and Military Club, Piccadilly.—For officers and ex-officers of the Army and Navy. Entrance fee, £36 15s. ; annual subscription, £8 8s. Qualification: Commissioned officers in the Army, Navy, and Royal Marines on full pay, or retired on full or half-pay at the date of their names being entered in the candidates’ book... The election is by ballot of members. Thirty at least must vote, and one black ball in seven excludes." (1879)
At the weekend, Piccadilly becomes even more of a tourist street than during the week. All the office workers are miles away back in suburbia, all the upper class are off shooting on their far-flung estates, and so the tourists have the street to themselves. And the touts (sorry, local craftsmen) take advantage of this by setting up stalls along the length of the park fence and flouting their wares to gullible passers-by. Just look at the range of oil paintings in flashy gold frames for sale on this particular stall. Perhaps you fancy a view of the Thames as a souvenir of your visit to ye olde London? Or maybe you'd prefer a cottage garden, or a veteran car, or a bowl of fruit, or any number of ghastly pieces of derivative artwork each available at a knock-down price from the shifty looking blokes parked up by the roadside? Or perhaps not. The street is trying so hard to be an English version of Montmartre, and so failing. Best avoided I think. Come here on a weekday instead, and then perhaps spend your weekends in Paris buying proper art.
Piccadilly is one of those places that every tourist to London visits. That's along with Big Ben, Buck House, LondonEye, Mr Sherlock Holmes, Nelson Square, Heath Row and The Harrods. But most of these tourists seem to be here in Piccadilly. They're everywhere, and they walk at tortoise pace if they bother to walk at all. You can't walk out of Green Park tube station without bumping into some lost soul lumbering towards a nearby hotel towing a huge wheelie suitcase behind them, or a gaggle of foreign students blocking the pavement with their enormous backpacks. Tourists with strong exchange rates frequent the nearby boutiques and arcades snapping up non-essentials by the bagful, while Americans just window shop and wish the dollar was a little stronger.
Sorry, more food. We're a couple of buildings north of Piccadilly here, in newly-resurfaced Stratton Street next to Green Park tube station. Langan's Brasserie is, perhaps not surprisingly, a brasserie founded by Peter Langan. Words such as 'flamboyant', 'charismatic', 'eccentric' and 'inebriated' have been used by some to describe the original proprietor (now deceased) and the interior decor reflects his personality. Michael Caine used to be co-owner here but sold up his share a few years ago. The restaurant's had its ups and downs over the last 27 years but is now on the up again, and is famous for being frequented by the famous. The English/French cuisine is affordable and of a high standard, so I'm told, should you ever fancy a night out stargazing. Yesterday's handwritten lunch menu featured calves' livers and bacon (£15.50) downstairs in the main restaurant, while the dish of the day upstairs in the Venetian Room was roast leg of lamb (£16.50). Me, I went to Benjys over the road instead and did lunch for £1.80.
Piccadilly tube quiz: Can you name eighteen Piccadilly Line tube stations from these picture clues? (Answers in the comments box)
You couldn't fault this open space under the Trades Descriptions Act - it's green, and it is indeed a park. Green Park is one of London's eight Royal Parks, with 40 acres of trees and grass gently sloping down from Piccadilly to Buckingham Palace. It's a peaceful place where sport is banned, more suited to strolling, slouching and sunbathing, and at this time of year it's usually full of office workers taking an extended lunchbreak. There are fine avenues of lime and plane trees, plus a couple of fountains and a lot of deckchairs, but otherwise the park is pretty featureless.
Every tourist to London knows about The Ritz, but only a select few get to stay here. It's the capital's most exclusive hotel, so the management would have you believe, although that doesn't necessarily make it the best. The Ritz is huge, six stories high and then another two in the roof, towering over Piccadilly like a giant ocean liner. Top-hatted footmen guard the entrances, sneering politely at the clientele and keeping the passing rabble at bay. Take your pick from the Ritz Hotel, the Ritz Restaurant or the Ritz Club, and please don't forget to wear a tie (ladies, this probably doesn't apply to you).
More recently The Ritz descended into a mockery of its former self, snobbish for snobbery's sake, until rescued by the reclusive Barclay Brothers in 1995. The hotel has a ratio of two staff to every guest room, which sounds a bit excessive to me but I guess it's useful if you ever need someone to help you slip on the complimentary bathrobe while someone else fetches breakfast. You'll also find a jewellers, a gentleman's barber, a ladies hairdressers with a 7th floor view, a bar with Lalique panels and a casino with red drapes, just to save you ever having to go outside. And then there's that English institution, tea at the Ritz, a snip at £32 so long as you don't mind nibbling on cucumber sandwiches and booking weeks in advance. Crackers.
There are surprisingly few works of public art down Piccadilly. In fact, between Eros at the top end and the Wellington Monument at the bottom, this statue is about all there is. It's called Horse and Rider, and it's stood on the corner of Dover Street and Piccadilly since 1975. The sculptor is Elisabeth Frink (1930-1993), one of the greatest 20th century British artists you've never heard of. She's particularly respected for her expressionistic figures of men and horses, of which this bronze is a particularly fine example, inspired by the wild horses of the Camargue. Lis also created work for the J F Kennedy Memorial in Dallas in 1964, was made a member of the Royal Academy in 1977 and became a Dame of the British Empire in 1982. It's sad now to see one of her best works hemmed in on the pavement by the littered tables and plastic chairs of a high street coffee chain, but at least Horse and Rider is still on public display. Better latté than never.
Bow Road update: It's been six months since the first portakabin and blue wall appeared at Bow Road Station in readiness for proposed extensive renovation work. Six months in which, as it turns out, virtually nothing of any consequence has happened. Now Metronet, the infrastructure consortium, are crowing that the transformation of Bow Road Station is finally underway with the erection of a giant "Green for GO" sign on one of the walls outside the station. Presumably we've been on AMBER for the last six months, with fat cat contractors raking in huge sums of public money in return for knocking up a few blue walls and erecting copious safety signage. I am deeply unimpressed. Anyway, here's what the new poster tells us Metronet are promising to achieve by next
• "A new ticket hall" (progress - zero)
South of Piccadilly lies the district of St James's, a gentleman's enclave on the fringes of Royal London. The area owes its exclusive status to St James's Palace, built in the 1530s by that quintessential English gentleman King Henry VIII. Monarchs lived here for the next 300 years, and the royal court also moved in after the Palace of Whitehall burnt to the ground in 1698. It's not a particularly magnificent building on the outside, and rather cramped on the inside, so George IV chose to move out in favour of nearby Buckingham Palace. Only the Princess Royal and Princess Alexandra still choose to live here today, but St James's Palace remains the official residence of the UK sovereign.
