Do first impressions count? Oh, juicy Christ at Christmas, yes! Haven’t you lost count of locking red-hot eyes with strangers, and later, locking pumping loins in impromptu spurts of anonymous spunk?
So yeah, as humans, we’re hard-wired to not only skim and consume apparent beauty, but swallow it deep-throat too. Which, superficially, explains why the once irresistible allure of Soho is now terminally passé. See, once – even three years ago – Soho’s poison-palace glamour, all barely legal bars, knocking shops and tranny street tarts trawling for trade – was fairy-dust, low-rent decadence personified!
Not now. Screw rarified, sociological notions of gentrification – nothing’s changed but blatant expressions of raw greed, and sentimental views of Soho as Eccentricity HQ don’t mean diddly-squat to property developers! Still, wasn’t Soho always just a knackered old slag on the make? Frankly, yes, and now it’s just poxy coffee bars and vapid eateries fleecing the dumb, unwary and uncaring!
So where – if anywhere – does the secret, gay heart of London still beat? And please, don’t even whisper Shoreditch, that utterly contrived, pathetic, purpose-built posing parade. No, the real truth is much more strange and subtle, epitomising that unique, English depravity Joe Orton imagined lurking just behind ‘respectable net curtains’.
Are you ready? Then welcome to Earl’s Court, once the flagship of gay S&M. Jesus, local sidewalks glittered with snail-trails of spunk leaking from splendid leather-queens striding to über-gay bar the Coleherne, AKA Whips ‘n’ Zips Central Command! Always packed and throbbing like rent-boys competing to service packs of insatiable super-stars, the Coleherne was the pansexual epicenter of Earl’s Court.
It’s not surprising. The Coleherne simply inherited the raffish, sexual scallywags and chancers always seething beneath the psychic and historical scabs of West London. From lairy, latter-day Fagin Malcolm McLaren to Viv Westwood’s skewed, faux-vintage fetishism, and Quentin Crisp’s aloof, OCD rummaging in other gentleman’s genitals, it’s always attracted roughs, scruffs and toffs all flying a dubiously pirate, pink flag!
Still, cue 2017, and the Coleherne – plus local bar, Infinity – are dead and buried. What’s left? Ah, try the Troubadour, Earl’s Court’s deeply eccentric and cozily bohemian bar, acclaimed restaurant and music venue. Okay, it’s never been overtly branded as a gay bar, but hey, let’s get real – it’s 2017, and we’re living in a post-gay, post-straight world, where mainstream sexuality has been irredeemably queered, and vice versa! Like it or not, every social venue possible is a showplace for any form of sexual flirting, and gay sexuality’s grown way beyond self-referential ghettoes!
It shows. Perfectly gripping 2017s’ sexually diverse profile like a vise, a constant flow of my fellow transsexuals, en route or returning from Charing Cross Gender Clinic, add instant clientele glamour. Always a welcoming, tranny oasis, Earl’s Court still boasts Ted’s T-girl bar, and once, housed a private gender clinic, trans-showgirl Tula, and fondly-remembered drag hangout, Manhattan’s.
Still, forget the past – step through the Troubadour’s fabulously theatrical, full-length scarlet velvet entrance curtain, and you’re in sexually available paradise. Whatever your preference, charming, hugely attentive staff make you feel the instant centre of their world, fixing gorgeously potent cocktails and insanely addictive, pan-European cuisine. Oh, forget harsh, modern takes on dining intimacy – the Troubadour is dark, cosy, inevitably candle-lit and dripping with transgressive, bohemian culture.
So no wonder deranged, maverick film-maker Ken Russell recruited extras here, and Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix bewitched downstairs in the cosseting, womb-like stage. And the pleasures, still, get breathlessly non-stop. Packed, monthly poetry nights and almost nightly music gigs, draw mixed, omnisexual hunks always eager to spread any kind of love. Never, ever, mistakenly assume rock ‘n’ rollers are merely straight – unleashed, they have the pantie-wetting, barely-sane frenzy of teenage girls caged in buff boyflesh! Welcome to the Troubadour – it’s life behind Orton’s prissy, net curtains!
• The Troubadour is at 263 – 267 Old Brompton Road, Earls Court, SW5 9JA
• Comments or feedback? Email [email protected]
