We Live Vicariously

 

Well, sometimes. An old friend's busy doing some sound magicke at London's famous RAK studios and sent me this:

Caption, "Look who lives on the wall here." Hey, let's hear it for Lemmy. Dam straight.

Your Pal,

LSP

Great Result

 

"So where've you been, so-called 'LSP'?" you mutter askance. That's a very good question and the answer's simple, in the UK. Object being to take two Sundays off and have some fun in the Sceptered Isle. So far so good with a week in London and attendant serious clubbing, let the reader understand, and now Edinburgh.

The high point? Going to mass on Sunday at St. Peter's London Docks (SPLD), one of the founders of the Anglo-Catholic Movement as we know it today. Tract into act sorta thing, and they did just that, ministering heroically to the cholera stricken poor in the 19th century.

That in mind, Sunday's Mass was outstanding. Hordes of kids, 13 Confirmations, a full church, great sounding choir and sparkling wine after Mass. Totally all good and uplifting in every respect. Well done, SPLD, you're bucking the trend and showing the world that real religion, as opposed to its ersatz rainbow simulacrum is the way forward.

And what good people! America take note, the UK is home to some pretty switched on punters, no kidding. Happy with that, I strolled through the streets of East London after Mass with an old friend, and today? 

Rode the rails to Edinburgh and the Royal Scots. More on this adventure as it unfolds.

God bless,

LSP

Crockford's

 

You, the discerning and gentle reader, will be pleased to know that I'm not a gambling man. Far be it from me to wager fast and loose on the vagaries of Dog Coin, the Peoples' Currency, and other speculation. That said, others have gambled and played deep, not least at Crockford's on St. James in the 1820s.

William Crockford was a fishmonger, born and raised at Temple Bar in London but, with a quick mathematical mind and attention to odds raised himself to a professional gambler, winning a massive fortune at cards, 100,000 pounds, millions now, at a game with various nobility in a tavern off St. James.

The Fishmonger gambler sensibly invested this money in a club, No. 50 St. James, over and against White's. This aristocratic gambling hell became all the rage, as did its play. For example:

The great majority of the club’s members were serious, indeed inveterate, gamblers. The equivalent of about $40 million is believed to have changed hands over Crockford’s first two seasons; Lord Rivers once lost £23,000 ($3 million) in a single evening, and the Earl of Sefton, a wastrel of whom the diarist Charles Greville observed that “his natural parts were excessively lively, but his education had been wholly neglected,” lost about £250,000 (almost $33 million today) over a period of years. He died owing Crockford more than $5 million more, a debt that his son felt obliged to discharge.

 

Crockford retired a multi-millionaire (not a socialist) in the 1840s and lost most of his fortune, apparently, on ill-advised bets on the Derby. Captain Gronow reckons, on reflection, "One may safely say, without exaggeration, that Crockford won the whole of the ready money of the then existing generation.” Quite a thing, we're talking millions and millions of pounds by 1820s/30s reckoning.

The Clubhouse still exists today and you can see it on your left as you stroll towards White's famous bay window. It was bought by a Russian oligarch around a decade ago and then squatted. Rumours that the DLC are purchasing this fine Regency building are precisely that, rumours.

Arduus Ad Solem,

LSP

What is This Excel Degeneracy?

 

Just in. The UK's Excel Centre, a massive event venue set in the heart of London's bustling Canary Wharf deadzone financial district, is hosting DragCon on 6-8 January 2023. What is DragCon UK 2023? Just a kid-friendly drag show featuring young boys dressed up as junior prostitutes walking down a runway.

Did anyone say pedophile groomer, and if not why not. What utter abhorrence. And on point, what kind of parents would so abuse their children this way? For that matter, how would any sane culture defend and promote such wickedness.

Answer being, of course, that the culture's not sane, it's been driven bad crazy by the infernal power. Baphomet, as this simple mind-blog never tires of reiterating, is notoriously trans. And you'll note, scandalized onlookers, that Satan always abandons his own. No fooling.

That in mind, perhaps it's no accident that GM's funding trans libraries for US kindergartens, and that London's Excel Centre's owned by the Abu Dhabi National Exhibitions Company. Last I heard, the Unied Arab Emirates was against transgenderism, in fact it's illegal in their country, as is dancing.

So what's this all about? Apart from the urgent need to boycott hideous, ugly and overpriced Crocs.

Your call,

LSP

Behold The Light

 

Drive into the light on the way to yesterday's evening Mass at Mission #2, by the lake. There it was, a Texan sunset and there I was, powering into the incandescent beauty of the thing. Is the infinite glory of God revealed to us in creation? It certainly was to me on the way to Lake Whitney and I was reminded of a time, several decades ago now, in London.

It was one of those points when pretty much everything seemed to have collapsed and I was utterly miserable, staying at  Fr. Michael Hollings' eclectic community in Bayswater. He lived, this cousin of the Duke of Norfolk, in a small office which somehow doubled as a bedroom and in I marched to pour out my tale of woe, and it was exceedingly woeful. No kidding.

Well, the priest listened, smiled and said, "Look out of the window at the sky," it was uncharacteristically blue, "and the trees. Beautiful, God is very, very good." So I looked out of the window and yes, it was beautiful, and my heart felt peace at that moment in the revealed goodness our loving God. 

Sentimental, mawkish piety? No. Bear in mind, Hollings had fought at Monte Casino in the Guards, I think as a Major. No small thing, and the point of this story? There's several, not least this. Look out, open your eyes, and behold the glory, goodness and love of God. As even the pagans of antiquity sensed, Sol Invictus. There's immeasurable hope in that.

God bless you all,

LSP

Clubbing

 

So what do you do in central London? Many things, but I like to go clubbing, this time 'round the good old National Liberal Club, No. 1 Whitehall. So, pull on a blazer, straighten your tie, wrestle with annoying but cool miniature shotgun shell cufflinks, give those loafers a brush and head off, it's not far.

Pass through Russell Square and admire the British Museum without going in, then take a left on Museum Street and go south, myriad memories. Then, as if by instinct, perhaps it is, muscle memory, you find yourself on the Strand.

Cut down Villiers Street and rushing masses of people getting off work. They're heading for home via Charing Cross, going to a pub or some kind of restaurant or all three, but you're going to the club. That in mind, take a right on the Embankment and stroll far from the madding crowd to Gladstone's 1882 setup overlooking the Thames and Embankment Gardens.

Walk through that storied portico and there you are. "Good evening," says someone at the door and you offer a sunny hello as you head to the bar. And there it is and there they are, the Nat Libs, having fun in a stunningly beautiful Victorian interior, some say the best in London, right there in the heart of the city.

The bar's congenial, the Terrace is great and the dining room's lovely. The Smoking Room's perfect too, except for the annoying fact that you're not allowed to smoke in it, but you can smoke on the Terrace, so all's not lost.

After a few drinks at the bar, head across the room for dinner. It's not bad and the club's proud of their chef, though I thought it a bit fixy. More trad club staples, please, and less Frenchifying. Still, a minor complaint and the company was good. A retired Colonel, a shooting salesman, several entertaining people from Ireland, think Parnell, and a retired civil servant with an interest in late antiquity. Far out, we talked Theodoric, Belisarius, #2A, Ireland and Army. Nice.

Eclectic and you can imagine the conversation at the table, also imagine that I was on my very best behavior. Well, it's hard not to be when you're sitting under life sized portraits of Gladstone. Dinner over, retire to the bar, chat with friends and then head home to Mecklenbugh Square, a good time had by all.

What a lot of fun and yet again haunted by ghosts and memories. Of my Father, who was a member, Gladstone himself and the Empire on which the sun never set. Today, this club's mostly for socializing and finding a place to relax in the midst of the rush of the city, but it was once a political powerhouse. And that's just it, was once.

Go there if you can, it has great reciprocal rights.

By Gladstone's Axe,

LSP

Pubs

 

One of the things you can do in London is go to pubs, I like that and enjoyed the Princess of Prussia, the famous French House and the Coach & Horses, the last two being in Soho.

Just a lot of fun but be ready for a bit of a scrum inside and out the Soho pubs for the first part of the evening. They get more manageable as the night goes on. Then, after last orders, you can stroll down the road to Bar Italia for coffee. Always a good result.

And I know it's not a pub but I like Gordon's, which is a wine bar on Villiers Street, next to Charing Cross station. Back in the '80s the action was all inside, in a cellarlike bar, but now you can spread out onto a congenial terrace, and drink your claret under helpful heat lamps. The food's good too, simple and not too pricey.

Convenient. You can walk down the Strand or the Embankment, pull into Gordon's, enjoy that, then head over to Soho for the rest of the night. Fun, and it was good to revisit old haunts and discover they were still there, mostly unchanged.

Of course other things have changed, but that's another story.

Pints all 'round,

LSP

All Set Up

But where? At the Strand Continental Hotel above the London institution that is the India Club, just down the Strand from King's and a shortish stroll to most everything central. Absurdly cheap too, which is a bonus, and right there in the heart of it all. 

Fancy

Is the SCH fancy? No, it is not. Is it clean? Yes, it is. Has it changed much from the 1940s? Apparently not, and I like that.  So pleased with the setup I headed East to Tower Hill and the Princess of Prussia pub to meet some old friends. What a good pub! Go there if you can.

Always wondered what this building was

Then back to the Strand which, unlike the SCH, has changed since the 1940s. In fact, it's changed in the last five years, but that's another story again. In the meanwhile, it's simply exciting to be back in London, there's a greatness to this city and you have to wonder at the Victorians who pretty much built what we see today. Yes, there were clearly giants in those days.

More anon as this adventure unfolds.

Cheers,

LSP

Another Year Around The Sun

 

Here it is, another year 'round the sun and I've cheated the prophets so far, "Try and make it to 40, fella," said a friend in a Bayswater pub in the '90s, over cold-as-you-like lager. Lo and behold, against the odds, Force LSP fought through that objective and set up Ops in the New Country. And I can't complain, Texas, especially, has been good. All hail country life, to say nothing of God and Guns.

To mark this achievement, the Specialist came home with totally unaffordable steaks. We'll grill those in a bit and celebrate, asparagus wrapped in bacon and baby potatoes alongside. So there it is. But speaking of celebration, I've got a good mind to take a train journey.

You know, for several days, with a Pullman, Diner and all the rest. Traverse this land by rail, as a kind of recce perhaps. But witch way? Maybe the Dallas-Chicago-Detroit run or go West, up to Montana and then Alberta? Then again, perhaps something more... specialized?

All advice welcome and in the meanwhile, one song to rule them all.

DFTR,

LSP

An Officer And A Gentleman

 

You may not have heard of Lieutenant Colonel Alfred Wintle MC, but he was a remarkable man. An eccentric Lion of the Empire who fought with great distinction in World War I and II. He was, needless to say, difficult. Here's a snapshot via the loathsome Wikipedia:

After the French surrender, Wintle demanded an aircraft (with which he intended to rally the French Air Force to fly their planes to Britain and continue fighting Germany from British air bases); when refused, he threatened an RAF officer (Air Commodore A.R. Boyle) with a gun. It was alleged that he had threatened to shoot himself and Boyle, and for this he was imprisoned in the Tower of London.

Wintle enjoyed himself in the Tower thus:

My life in the Tower had begun. How different it was from what I had expected. Officers at first cut me dead, thinking that I was some kind of traitor; but when news of my doings leaked out they could not do enough for me. My cell became the most popular meeting place in the garrison and I was as well cared for as if I had been at the Ritz. I would have a stroll in the (dry) moat after breakfast for exercise. Then sharp at eleven Guardsman McKie, detailed as my servant, would arrive from the officers' mess with a large whisky and ginger ale. He would find me already spick and span, for though I have a great regard for the Guards, they have not the gift to look after a cavalry officer's equipment. The morning would pass pleasantly. By noon visitors would begin to arrive. One or two always stayed to lunch. They always brought something with them. I remember one particularly succulent duck in aspic - it gave me indigestion - and a fine box of cigars brought by my family doctor. Tea time was elastic and informal. Visitors dropped in at intervals, usually bringing along bottles which were uncorked on the spot. I don't recall that any of them contained any tea. Dinner, on the other hand, was strictly formal. I dined sharp at eight and entertained only such guests as had been invited beforehand. After a few days of settling in, I was surprised to find that - as a way of life- being a prisoner in the Tower of London had its points.

You will note "for though I have a great regard for the Guards, they have not the gift to look after a cavalry officer's equipment." Quite. Here's Wintle after the war, at El Vino's on Fleet Street, from a 1999 letter to the Spectator:

Sir:

Frank Bower was not always able to eject unwanted patrons from El Vino (Letters, 1 May). One morning in the late Fifties, a West Indian workman entered what he thought was a pub and asked the proprietor for a pint of bitter. Empurpled with rage, embroidered waistcoat at bursting point, Bower was hustling him into Fleet Street when interrupted by a crisp military command from the back of the bar: 'That gentleman is a friend of mine. I have been expecting him. Kindly show him to my table.' Colonel Wintle - celebrated for inspecting the turn out of his German guards when a prisoner of war and for debagging a solicitor - had spoken.

Rising to greet his guest, Wintle trained his monocle on Bower and ordered, 'Pray bring us two small glasses of white wine.' When this had been drunk and a convivial conversation concluded, the Colonel and his new friend rose, shook hands and went their separate ways.

Wintle wore a monocle because his eye was blown out in the war

 

Yes, there were giants in those days, and thanks Anon for the link and make of this what you will.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

Just Strolling

There was a stillness in the air as the sun rose above this small redoubt on the Texan Front. That's because everyone was sensibly in bed before braving the Thanksgiving Day Supermarket Maelstrom. I gazed at the frost, had a cup of hot tea, said Morning Prayer and took Blue Eschaton for a walk.

We went by a small but patriotic compound which seems to be in a constant state of yard sale. You know the thing, broken records, a bent bicycle wheel, soggy clothes in a wet cardboard box, a few old rusty spoons, a doorless fridge, whatever. A bit like the Tramp Market under the London's Westway in the early 1990s.

"Must get this crew into church," I thought to myself as I passed Jose's new house. Jose's bought some wooden fencing to mark the boundary between his compound and the yard sale scrappers' but he hasn't put it up yet.

The Pick 'n Steal was empty, apart from the Owl idol, and I poured some coffee into a Yeti 20 Ounce Tumbler, guaranteed to keep your drink hot or cold, no matter what kind of beating you give it. I'm inclined to doubt Yeti's marketing but haven't put it to the test, stay tuned.

Coffee poured into the purportedly indestructible Yeti, I strolled across the way to the Disciples Christian Church, at least I think that's what it is but it's hard to remember. They're a small crew but friendly, good luck to 'em.

We stopped up behind the temple and Blue got to nose about while I took a few sips of Yeti insulated coffee. Yes, thanks to Yeti's special system the coffee was still hot even though the Tumbler hadn't taken a beating, well done. 

I looked around while Blue Appalling did unmentionable things and took in the quiet Texan street scene. This part's well put together and a few young families make the effort to make it nice, in pleasant contrast to the crackheads, fools and wastrels that live down the block.

We moved on, patrolling beneath the locust trees, keeping an eye out for malfeasant skulduggery from the ne'er-do-well rent shacks on the left. But they were fast asleep and Blue Attack missed his chance at glory.

And there it was, the Compound, flags waving, chairs gleaming and all was well. The day moved on from there, much of it on the porch, but that's a different story. 

So there it is, another morning's worth of country life in Texas.

Quas Primas,

LSP

9/11

It's 9/11 and the flags are flying in this small Texan farming community. Of course they're always flying at the Compound but on special occasions extra flags go out, courtesy of the Town and our local militias. I like that, it seems right.

It's right, too, to remember the Saudi Arabian driven attack on the US and the subsequent never-ending war that's followed, a war in which we're seemingly incapable of naming our enemy. Would that be because we're allied to the Mecca-based opposition? Perhaps.

Shortly after the attack I was in London, in a pub, oddly enough. I was all for America unleashing on Saddam and full of righteous retribution. But a friend countered, suggesting that it might be a better solution to attack Saudi Arabia and arm the Kurds. With hindsight, good call.

Speaking of foreign policy, let's not forget Hillary. Yes, the same deceitful, spiritually dead harridan who blamed the deaths of Benghazi on a video and fell into a drunken, violent rage when she lost the election and the power she craved; what of her? Why, the answer's easy.

LOCK HER UP.

LSP

The Best Ads Ever!

Team LSP never sleeps, which is why we're able to present you, the reader, with these neat street ads, straight from the streets of London itself, the erstwhile Capital of the greatest Empire the world has ever seen. 

Have a look.

Not too keen on men!

Better stand stalwart for all the oppressed interior designers and womyn politicians, pop stars, CEOs and models.

Hetero Male Supremacy? Nein Danke.

Lesbyterianism? Different story. That's very Paris Commune, womyn-up the barricades and storm the Winter Palace.

So we have to ask, who designed this genius, Madonna?

We are the small axe, you are the big tree, we're going to cut you down.

Cheers,

LSP