Suggs and the City: Journeys Through Disappearing London Read Online Free Page A

you have to take a walk in the open air to get to the lavs, which are located in an outside yard. There used to be tons of caffs like the Lorelei in Soho, but nearly all of them have done a vanishing act in recent times due to the inexorable march of the global coffee conglomerates.
    It’s one of life’s great mysteries to me as to who wants to pay £6.90 for the privilege of having ‘coffee’ in a gallon of warm milk served in a bucket with a straw. It always amazes Italian friends of mine, when they’re over here on a visit, to see office workers in contortions on benches in Soho Square, balancing one of those super-sized mocha frappuccinos between their knees while trying to eat a sandwich and talk on a mobile phone at the same time. Mind you, talking of contortions, you should have seen their faces when they came out of one of the brighter Soho clubs later that evening.
    The sterile, uniform surroundings of the coffee-chain cafes don’t pass muster either. Do you know what I want? I want to hear the dull chink of Pyrex crockery and the rattle of cutlery trays; I want wall-to-wall laminate surfaces and chrome and vitriolite espresso machines; I want steamed-up windows and the whiff of a fat fryer; I want tea urns and tomato-shaped sauce dispensers; I want a bit of banter with a familiar face behind the counter instead of being told to ‘have a nice day’ by remote. Above all, I want the charismatic caffs of yesteryear over the bland, branded coffee combines that have stripped our high streets, back streets, avenues and alleyways of their individuality. Give me a coffee outside Bar Italia underneath its big neon clock that directs lost latte lovers to its two-tone Formica charms and I’ll greet all passers-by with a contented smile.
    Sitting on Frith Street with the froth blowing off cappuccinos all around me, it’s evident that catering is king in Soho these days, because just about every retail outlet opposite me is either a coffee concession, club, bar, takeaway or restaurant. Thirty years ago sex shops ruled the retail roost in Soho, with over 200 outlets dotted around the district selling a different variety of takeaway wrapped in a brown paper bag. A balance had to be found. Soho needed to be cleaned up a smidge, because its sleazy reputation was not only killing other businesses, it was also destroying the sense of community that had long existed among residents and tradespeople. The district was reborn in the 1980s, thanks to the concerted efforts of the Soho Society. However, Soho’s resurgence was accompanied by the rise of commercial rents, which had been artificially low during the period the district was in the grip of vice and, inevitably, there were some casualties.
    Most of the small businesses that used to supply goods and provisions to the local community - butchers, fishmongers and ironmongers - are long gone. There used to be a fair number of back-street tailors and specialist instrument-makers too, of which only a few still survive. Recently I’ve noticed that the record shops of Berwick Street have all but vanished, which has special resonance for me. Berwick Street used to be a Mecca for vinyl and CD junkies, and in the 70s I used to buy obscure singles on the Bluebeat label here. Initially I bought a couple out of curiosity, because it certainly wasn’t the sort of thing that would’ve been played on the self-proclaimed ‘Nation’s Favourite’ pop music station, BBC Radio One. Of course, had I been around a few years earlier, I would’ve been able to walk into Soho’s mod clubs, like the Scene or the Flamingo, not more than a few yards away, and hear this kind of music every night. Anyway, by the time I was about 17, my collection of Bluebeat singles had grown to a couple of hundred and a fair proportion of these 45s were by Prince Buster, including one called ‘Madness’. I can even recall the number of the single: BB 170. Of course, this later became the name of a very