Saying “it’s not what it used to be” is, ironically, one of the last authentic Soho traditions still standing — right up there with chain-smoking outside The French House and pretending you know who that bloke in the corner used to be. I’ve always resisted, but now I’m saying it … to everyone.
After 25 years of dancing, working and occasionally crying in this little filth-pocket of the West End — a handful of those years underage — I’ve earned my right to be both sentimental and critical. Lots of places have their own version of Soho — a village of intrigue plonked in the middle of everything, existing outside the usual rules of metropolitan life, where the best bits of a city’s soul ferment and distil. I remember my first glimpse of our magical corner, a cheeky flash of red neon from a coach, on a school trip to see Oliver! at the Palladium. Glances over Shaftesbury Avenue to the Windmill on my way to the Trocadero came later. The other side of that boundary felt secret, grown-up, faintly dangerous. Instant love.
