REFERENDUM & REFORM

 

Really, you're really gonna do it? The world holds it's bated breath. In the meanwhile, Hollywood celebs who, notoriously, aren't on Epstein's or P Diddy's degenerate sex list are threatening to leave the country. My, what a surprise. Deportations, panda eyes and pizzagate anyone? Don't say sick pedos.

I told you so

Whatev, that appears to be kinda self-policing. In the meanwhile, the greatest Russian agent in the history of Kremlinocracy prepares to take power and slice through our bloated government like the sick fish it is. Power to him and to RFK, Tulsi and the team. Well done, stay the course.

Pompey Redivus

Speaking of which, UK correspondents are saying, "We're really scared, were p*ssing our pants!" Why? Because 47's gonna not be socialist? Oh, what a terrible tragedy. Because he'll punish Two-Tier Kier with tariffs and make that neo-commie fool pay? Maybe because he'll back Farage and Reform.

Protect Your Kids, No Fkn Fooling

Reform, my dear friends, is a fine club on Pall Mall with an unreconstructed Georgian interior. But let's return to the point. America has, evidently, voted to kick out its celebrities to Canada and the UK. And there you have it.

Ahem, Membership Please

Sicut Erat,

LSP

What A Busy Day!

 

What a busy day. First up, strong covfefe on the front porch as water fell from the skies upon this parched slice of rural paradise, blissful, and read the news while you're at it. Next? 

Shower, shave, make the bed (surely redundant info? Ed.), go for a morning constitutional to the Pick 'n Steal aka Filling Station, say Morning Prayer on the porch, work on Sunday's sermon, then help Senior Warden edit a Bunny Book in InDesign.

Yep, a Bunny Book. He's been made chief of the Texas Bunny Association or whatever it's called, and has to produce this great book. It's produced in Adobe's annoyingly rental InDesign and I was happy to help. A few graphic bunny design pages later and we were good to go. He to his ranch and I to vote.

That's right, unlike every other loyal rural voter I hadn't made the time to vote early, so I made up for it today. Not hard, there were hardly any people because everyone had tipped up last week and it was fun to talk to the election workers, who mostly seemed to work at the Pick 'n Steal. Most conviv.

Ahem, you're ironically a member of that? It's a broad Church

Voting, for what it's worth, done, I strolled over to the supermarket to buy some election day white wine and from there to an alterations tailor with a tan poplin 3 button roll to 2 suit coat. 

Could she fix this tried and trusted bit of cloth? Yes, she could. And C, who was waiting in the wings, asked me to bless some Holy Water for her, which I promised to do. "Better dunk it on her head," offered the seamstress. The rest is history.

Your Buddy,

LSP

Just Go To Mass

 

So, LSP, where do you to Mass in London, if you go at all, which we doubt you ask with that knowing smile on your face. Ah hah, not so fast, punters, I do go to Mass in London and here's where, the Brompton Oratory in Knightsbridge.

Why? Because it's most awesome, with remarkable music, think Tallis, Tye, Byrd etc, and there you have it, the music transports your soul to heaven, and the oriented Novus Ordo but in Latin liturgy (lections English) does the same. And all with efficiency, they don't fumble about and mess around.

I tell you, this Solemn High Concert Mass lasts exactly one hour and fifteen minutes, perfect, leaving you with plenty of time to catch a cab, aka fast mover, to St. James' Square and Sunday lunch at the Club. No bad thing.

So, if you want a dose of real religion and you're in London, if you want to feel like you've been to church, go to the Brompton Oratory, it won't disappoint. Or go to St. Peter's London Docks, but that's a different if similar post.

Your Pal,

LSP

Let's Rock 'n Roll

 

There we were, years ago in a flat in Bloomsbury, which is a part of London, and a music kid asked me to put on some music. I did, Mona, QSMS, rock on. Boy listened for a minute and asked, "So where's the bass, man?" So where's the bass. Resisting the heady temptation to punch him in the face, I turned up the juke box. Rock on.

Excelsior,

LSP

Up Up And Away

 

Perhaps you know the feeling, sometimes you have to get away because things get samey, and my solution was this. Fly to England with Ma LSP for a well needed break, which is exactly what we did. First stop, DFW Terminal D, next stop, Heathrow Terminal 3 followed by a fast train to Paddington.

Just Some Carousel

Take in the wonders of Victorian railway architecture then line up, in a weirdly long line, for a cab. Take that to the Farmers Club in Whitehall like a champ. Book into Farmers, most congenial, then set up in rooms overlooking the Thames and go from there.

"There", meant the NatLib, two doors down, and dinner in the club's monumental dining room. There you are, enjoying an autumnal menu under larger than life portraits of statesmen who shaped the world in their time. It's not hard to reflect on the scale and grandeur of the Empire in that setting, and by the same token, who are we now compared to them? Pygmies in the footsteps of giants.

Gordons is Awesome at Noon

Speaking of which, London's grown pretty gargantuan over the last 20 years or so, but has it grown better? Good question. There's certainly many more secular cathedrals of glass, concrete and steel rising out of the city's eastern skyline; St. Paul's is dwarfed in comparison, and I guess that's a sign of wealth. But are the people any richer?

Some are, obviously, no doubt about it, but lately London seems to lack the vibrancy of the mid '90s when you could feel and watch a tidal wave of wealth roll into the city, to say nothing of talent. Remember, ahem, Britpop? Still, the place is clearly running on multiple cylinders, to say nothing of hordes of Japanese and Korean tourists.

Ma LSP at Farmers

Regardless, the first week of the trip was all all about entertaining old friends, not least my Mother's, who are a step above, and then, after a weekend at the EIC (East India Club) and Mass at the Brompton Oratory, climbing aboard a train to idyllic Ludlow. This sits on the Welsh border and shouldn't be missed.

After several convivial days with SH and K, my brother drove in from Aberystwyth and off we went to the Welsh coast. It was good to be back in this rainy seaside resort and good to see my brother, who's a good man, but I only stayed a night, sadly. The next day I sped back to Town on a slow moving Transit for Wales train to meet old friends, setting up at an AirBnB in Soho on Frith Street.

The Jolly Old NatLib

Part of this may have involved a Techno Rickshaw around the storied streets of Soho, another part of it certainly involved a lot of Coach & Horses, French House and Bar Italia. One friend, we'd gone to dinner at the NatLib and immigrated to Soho, accused me of inverse Milton, "From Paradiso to Inferno, Padre!" Quite.

Then, Soho tomfoolery over, a sideways move to Bloomsbury and a pleasant little flat on Coptic Street overlooking the British Museum. Ma LSP joined me there for the last few days and we closed up with lunch at the Prix Fixe in Soho, followed by a glass or two at the French House and then, after a sensible rest, drinks and snacks at the Museum Tavern. And now?

Coptic Street

Back in the great state of Texas. It feels good. We may not have real bread, butchers, pubs, architecture to speak of, cobblers, butchers, fishmongers and clubs with imperial ceilings and portraits of Gladstone and statues of General Outram or Gordon. True enough, but we do have this, big skies, trucks, guns and NO NANNY STATE.

Rare LSP Tie Shot

So forgive the lack of comms, I've been busy. Stand by for further correspondence.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

This One's For Wild

 

Sorry, Neil, but I remember playing Sweet Home at great volume from an upper story flat in Lamb's Conduit Street, London, of all places, in the '90's. 

Far-Sighted Readers Will Spot LSP Overwatch On The Fourth Floor

The people down below on the street liked it, a lot. But that was then, this is now. Turn it up.

Good call, Wild,

LSP

A Typical London Sunday

 

So whaddya do on any given Sunday in London, capitol city of the Sceptred Isle? Good question and there's many options, but here in LSPland we like to go down this route. 

Viz. Wake up, this is important. Then, ablutions complete, get dressed. Maybe this involves a Harvie & Hudson shirt, a regimental or club tie, and some kind of suit, two button, three button, double breasted. Your choice, there's no rule. Then polish your shoes, like a pro.

The Best Shirts? I Call Yes

Well done, you've got this far. Next step, walk with urgency to the nearest underground railway, picking up strong covfefe on the way. Two stops later you're in Knightsbridge, marvel at the hordes of tourists getting off at this stop and join them, where are they going?

Not to shop, because these are shut 'til Noon, so perhaps they're going to Mass, just like you. A few minutes later find yourself at the Brompton Oratory, right on time for the 11.00 am Solemn High, and guess what, this large church is packed with all manner of people. Young, old, rich, poor, English, foreign, you name it, there they are, all present and correct to worship God according to the Western Rite of the Mystical Body of Christ. But hold on.

Beautiful

Parse Western Rite as an oriented Solemn High with three Sacred Ministers, in Latin with English readings, and the order of the new(ish) Mass. In other words, an Eastward facing Solemn High Latin variant of the Novus Ordo, all set to beautiful music, think Tallis and all of that. Which, dear readers, is the way liturgical reform should have gone but didn't.

Well, the proof of the pudding's in the eating and the Oratory's packed while guitar playing nun, wymxn priestess churches aren't. So. Mass over, not that the sacrifice ever ends, stride out uplifted onto the Brompton Road. Gaze at Harrods on your right and reflect on the times you've been there since a child, but don't go in.

EIC - Most Congenial

Instead, catch a cab to the East India Club, it's not far away, just off St. James, and enjoy a drink before lunch. Maybe you want a Bloody Mary, a French 75 or a Martini, whatever, your call, then enjoy smoked salmon carved off the trolley, roast beef, perfectly medium rare, and a desert. My choice is this: A scoop of chocolate ice cream and a double espresso. You see, you can mix the coffee with the ice cream and it tastes like perfection, word to the wise.

Lunch evolution over, you can go upstairs to the comfortable and historic Waterloo Room or stroll over to the In & Out (Naval & Military) to enjoy the after party before heading back to SOHO. Yes, this is still a thing and doesn't seem to have changed so very much in thirty or so years. In fact, the place seems to be recovering after the UK's heinous COVID lockdown. 

Don't be Fooled, This Place is Always Packed

Whatever, Team LSP favors the FRENCH HOUSE and the COACH & HORSES. And that's how Sunday night finishes, mission accomplished, a job well done.

Cheers,

LSP

BACK

 

So just what, exactly, are you back from, so-called LSP? I'll tell you, an explosive tour around the Old Country. In brief: Survive the Eclipse Event, enter a portal and land at Heathrow, set up in Whitehall, take care of business, stroll 'round the corner to the jolly old NatLib and go from there, London's your oyster, and what an oyster it is.

Typical Whitehall Street Scene

Yes indeed, not least the Brompton Oratory where they celebrate the Mass in Solemn High grand style and, let the reader understand, in good time. Yep, an hour and fifteen minutes from beginning to end, concert high. 

NatLib - Shocking Slack

After that, catch a cab to St. James Square and Sunday lunch at the East India, order off the trolley like a pro and then, delicious meal over, stroll across the way to the In & Out (Naval and Military) and take advantage of their beautiful courtyard.

A Brazen Goat

Brazen courtyard goat notwithstanding, catch a fast train to Edinburgh and stay at the Royal Scots, what a congenial club. Ludlow beckons next, an idyllic market town which is rightly famous for the Blue Boar. Stop there for drinks and snacks. Next up? Back to London and Soho.

Prix Fixe

Get off at Euston, thanking God you're wearing a stab vest, catch a cab to Soho and have fun from thereon in. Maybe that involves multiple Negronis. Last leg of the tour, fly into Calgary and marvel at one gallon of milk costing EIGHT BUCKS. No kidding, something better change. Rock on.

Your Expat Pal,

LSP

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