Clubbing

 

I texted an old pal who lives somewhere near Derby, which is a kind of town in the UK, "Let's go clubbing, in London." There was a pause in the text stream as Derby considered this enticing option and then, "I think I'm too old for that kind of thing." 

Huh. Resisting the urge to type with my thumbs "don't be pathetic" I replied, "No, not that kind of club, obviously, a club. Let's RV at the NatLib." He thought about it and the idea fell into that ether where unwanted emails, broken furniture and election promises go to die. But not so fast, the concept's still on the table.

Plan being, fly to London in Q1 24, catch a fast mover to Paddington, a cab or tube to Whitehall, set up in rooms and then stroll 'round the corner to Gladstone's place. Walk through those storied doors, wave a sunny hello to Luiz, guarding the gate, and then walk up Europe's largest freestanding marble stairwell to the Smoking Room.

Be annoyed for an instant because you can't smoke in the dam Smoking Room anymore, and walk over to the bar humming Ship of Fools. Safely at the bar, order an excellent Negroni, they really are just that, and admire the palatial space of this remarkable club. 

Jules Verne always springs to mind. Imagine, back in the 1880s this was the largest clubhouse in the world, complete with electricity and an elevator. No kidding, all very Nautilus, and you can sense that as you walk through rooms within which the fate of the British Empire, and of the world, was in play. The place was a powerhouse.

Today it's a social club, a beautiful oasis of calm right there overlooking the Embankment. And here's the thing, you're all welcome to join me for an LSP social some time after Easter. DM to RSVP.

Clubland Forever,

LSP

St. Michael Defend Us In Battle

I think it was Gladstone or someone like him who said, "As it now stands, no power on earth can save the Church of England." The Grand Old Man had a point, that year maybe ten people and a dog turned up for Mass at St. Paul's Cathedral in London on Easter day. But that was then, in far-off C19, today?

Gladstone's words apply not just to the venerable if shrinking  COE but to the entire, Godless, corrupt, malfeasant, inverted, insane culture we live in. No earthly power can save it, problem. Solution? We need heavenly power to save us. So here's a prayer:

St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him we humbly pray; and do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly host, by the power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who prowl the world for the ruin of souls. Amen.

 

This Archangelic prayer in mind, do you think apostate earthly power, which is at heart demonic power, can withstand the terrible swift sword, the implacable, all-bright, relentless blade of divine truth wielded by the angelic host? No, like smoke, like chaff, like the dross it is, it will be blown away.

Do you think God has prolonged the time? It is clear, to me at least, that he has, as foretold, and the message is clear, repent, "turn and live."

Your Friend on the Feast of St. Michael the Archangel,

LSP

Who Were These Men?

 

Who were the men who built the mighty British Empire? Were they effete, tofu gorging, soy swilling, self-apologizing, climate aggrandizing soi bois? Were they puberty blocking trans Rainbow Warriors? No, they were not. Here's IKB:

You'll note he had a knighthood, in contradistinction to Paul McCartney, give that man a K. My, how that worm's turned. Then there's Gladstone, the Great Statesman. Look at his face and ask, "Would he have been in favour of trans marriages, for a second."

No, of course not. Point being, who were these men? Giants.

Arduus Ad Solem,

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