I’m trying to work out who wouldn’t want to sing along to Master of the House in an upstairs Soho bar while eating cheese tarts (very dainty) and drinking cheap white wine (not so much). Those who wouldn’t want to, I don’t want to know. Go and complain about the noise some more and scuttle off back to Hertfordshire.
The lyrics to that certified banger out of Les Misérables are fitting here. At The Room Where it Happens, a new den of iniquity on Greek Street, resting actors take turns to serve drinks and perform jauntily around a piano. It has the same owner — Dennis — as that of Gerry’s down the road. The theatre crowd will be there. Songs will percolate the room like morning coffee. Soon it will be morning in any case.
