There are few places as alluring as the rabbit hole that is ‘Old Soho.’ A gritty, artistic haven of creativity, debauchery and sexual liberation, its postcode is hazardous, yet utterly addictive — well, at least the search for it is. And that search is growing ever more difficult, because Old Soho is shrinking. In fact, much of it exists only in our imagination because the reality is we never experienced it. Not really. Not up close. The area we see fetishised by Tiktokkers smoking Marlboros in farmer’s caps disappeared long ago and today, other than a half pint at the French House, or a dance alongside Humphrey Bogart at Trisha’s, the only way in is via the legacy of the artists, writers and characters who made it.
