Well That Was Fun - Part One

 

It's been a busy couple of weeks and it started like this. You climb onto a plane at DFW, marvel at the lack of people on the flight, and fly to London. Get out at London Heathrow's curiously cramped Terminal 3 and head downtown via train, then set up in Whitehall. Great result, you've made it.

Go exploring for the next couple of days and meet up with old friends on Pall Mall and Soho, notably the famous Coach and Horses on Greek Street. It's a tradition and a good one, if noisy, and you can end the evening with strong covefe at Bar Italia, another tradition. Next evolution?

Go full-on patriot and join Unite The Kingdom, a massive march protesting open borders great replacement immigration, censorship and the iniquity of the UK's Rainbow Caliphate orthodoxy. Seriously, it was a big march, maybe a million strong, which the smug, mendacious, passive aggressive BBC deceitfully undercounted by around 900,000 people.

Well, we navved into the midst of it after an informal lunch in the courtyard of the In & Out (Naval & Military Club) and were struck by the good humor, patriotism and sense of the crowd, many of whom were shocked by Charlie Kirk's assassination and, curiously, were eager to share their faith. Quite a thing, and well worthy of a separate post. More on this later.

Marching for freedom against the wickedness of Globalist Puppet Two-Tier Kier done, we fell back to Trafalgar Square where the boys were starting to get a bit rowdy, and from there to the Harp for a pint and from there to clubland, which meant negronis in the Waterloo Room of the East India, nice. From there?

A delicious dinner at Cafe Zedel, which is an art deco bistro restaurant off Piccadilly Circus. I think it used to be the restaurant of a hotel my Mother stayed in during her purgatorial time at General Synod. Whatever, it's been fixed up and offers good French style food at a very reasonable price. Check it out, but be warned, it can be very full and very noisy; the latter compounded by live jazz 1930s style from a side stage. Hey, living the dream.

Saying goodbye to friends at Piccadilly Circus, we headed down Shaftsbury Avenue in the rain to Soho and the French House. I love the French House, it has magic, and the magic wasn't absent that night. We fell in with a couple of young Gurkha officers (logistics) who'd been at the club that afternoon. 

One was an ADC and I told him, "ADCs always frightened me," which they did, and he told me he wasn't especially frightening, which he didn't seem to be. "But perhaps you can be," I offered by way of social compromise. And so the evening spun on, but not uncontrollably so, and we found ourselves, safe and sound, back at the civilized, relaxing, congenial, attentive, polite, Reform Club. Result.

The next day was all about Mass at the Brompton Oratory, beautiful, lunch at the East India Club which, I tell you, punches high when it comes to salmon and roast beef, not kidding, and from there an easy night. All good, and the next step? Edinburgh and the Royal Scots.

That, dear readers, all five of you, is the next stop on this exciting and adventurous excursion into Kier Starmer's Great Britain, aka Rainbow Caliphate. Stay tuned.

Your Pal,

LSP