Dear Readers,
Good evening and welcome back to Capital Letter. We’re hitting the dark-at-tea-time part of the year, and so it is more vital than ever to know that when you’re venturing out into that gloomy night that you aren’t doing it in vain. We’re here to hold your cold hand through it with our equally frozen mitt.
Now we try and keep things CL-exclusive, but we have an incredibly exciting prize draw running. There are some amazing things to be won – ludicrously expensive handbags, cases of delicious wine and a night for two and the signature set meal at Osip, recently acclaimed as the best restaurant in Britain. There is also an array of smaller prizes – around 30 in all – so you really are in a chance of getting something sweet. All the money will go towards expanding our mission next year under ‘The Fence’s Fighting Fund’, and allow us to do more investigations and hire more bright young things in 2026 and beyond.
This is set to be the penultimate edition of this year, and we are already planning how to make this bigger and better for all of you, but especially for our paid subscribers. Indeed, it might not be such a bad idea to get your subscription in now, so you can access this wonderful map of all of our recommendations – you will be getting much more in due course.
If you’d like to write something for this lovely newsletter or have a tip off about something we should be aware of – a show, exhibition, shop, concert, area of London, or strange story from the capital – do please let us know. Our ears are always open at editorial@the-fence.com, and we always have space for first-time writers with a good idea.
To the fortnight’s business. This installment, we’ll be taking you through some important Christmas party etiquette, the ways and means to avoid a crap Christmas show and the essential stop if you fancy yourself a bit of liquor sauce. First up, let’s talk about a subject we’ve become an expert on: the pub.
Should the Rovers Return?
You don’t often encounter a proper skewering of a new restaurant in the broadsheet press these days, so Grace Dent’s takedown of The Shaston Arms in Soho made for all the more thrilling reading. In the interests of full disclosure, we’ve been there a couple of times and found a perfectly charming addition to the Soho scene, but Dent does hit on something important, of how restaurateurs are now reaching, in ever greater numbers, for ‘the pub model’. Inspired by the runaway success of the Guinness Death Star that is The Devonshire, there has been a blossoming of boujie pub openings and renovations all over the capital over the last year, from The Salusbury in Queen’s Park to the ludicrously glitzy Prince Arthur, located in Belgravia, no less. We may have reached Peak Posh Pub: witness Mick Jagger, close friend of this newsletter, Leonardo DiCaprio, Jeremy Irons and Paul Thomas Irons hit up The Hart in Marylebone for a film party.
What’s attractive about what has become known as ‘the pub model’ is that it increases footfall throughout the week, especially on Mondays and Tuesdays, when many people are WFH. It also keeps the tills ringing throughout the afternoon, and because of the more frenetic nature of a pub, it means that you don’t need to retain outstanding staff in the same way that you do if you’re running a white tablecloth joint in Mayfair. Customers are less minded to care about a few rough edges if they’ve got a pint glass in front of them, even if they’re still paying north of £30 for a main course.
Despite what the doomsters say, there is big money in the pub game. Young’s – far from the biggest pubco in the country – just posted profits of £77 million before taxation, which, to put in some form of context, is about double the profits of the Financial Times. Fuller’s, who manage many of the capital’s most iconic pubs – to varying degrees of success – have also had a record year.
But will consumers get wise to the game? Do we want more of an evening than a lukewarm pie and a £7.80 pint? We hope that restaurateurs with verve, ambition and pizzazz do not feel disheartened from watching the long queue at the bar.
Ah, Yes. The Wrong Side of Eaton Square
Innovation in the theatre really grinds to a halt in December. The weather is cold and theatre producers – always anxious about the proverbial ‘bums on seats’ – want to shoot their shot with their most commercial offerings.
One of the results, along wi is a wince-inducing list of play titles. Venues across the capital are readily daubing their frontispieces with names such as Dracapella, The Liar, The Bitch, and the Wardrobe, Beauty and the Beast: A Horny Love Story, Dick Whittington and His Catford Cat, Sh!t-faced Showtime’s A Pissedmas Carol and A Christmas Carol: As Told by Jacob Marley (deceased). Theatre often blesses us with ridiculous titles – September gave us Dr Freud Will See You Now, Mrs Hitler – but they do seem to pile up in the attention-hunting winter programming.
It is hard to see the lengthy extension of the National’s Importance of Being Earnest in any other light. Moving over to the Noel Coward Theatre, it has picked up some name-draws in its new cast including Hugh Dennis and, of course, Sir Stephen Fry as Lady Bracknell. As a show, it’s not a winner. The subtleties and poetry of Wilde’s play (however overperformed) are great things, but here all the dials are sadly turned up to a panto-like ten. ‘Tis the season, but Lady Bracknell and Widow Twankey are not the same. The biggest problem this creates is for the play’s female characters, who are all turned into raunchy, sex-obsessed caricatures. It seems to have been an attempt to avoid the trope of the demure, pious angel, but the result is this cliché’s equally extant mirror: bitches be crazy. It also features a truly hideous clap-along curtain call.
Its success is another win for its director Max Webster (a known canny operator in the industry) and another loss for the art form. With all this said, we take a moment to praise the man who might seem like the easy punching bag here. Stephen Fry is the saving grace of this production, as was Sharon D Clarke, whose role he takes on. Both have impeccable vocal control, a genuine love for the text and a serious stage presence. The other saviour of the production was the inimitable Hayley Carmichael, a phenomenally underrated actor who played both of the servants (Lane and Merriman) with exceptional quality.
So, mediocrity abounds as per, but where, then, should you go for a theatre fix this winter? These are our suggestions – informed guesses, mind, as they aren’t on yet.
Our top picks are Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zooand Revenge: After the Levoyah, two titles done right. The former isa surreal dark comedy set in post-Saddam Iraq, where a hungry, fast-talking tiger is on the loose. It’s coming to these fair isles after a Broadway run and is directed by Omar Elerian, whose production of Ionescu’s Rhinoceros was one we praised against a misguided current earlier in the year. The latter is a hyper-successful show that came out of The Yard a few years ago and keeps being brought back. Why? Because it is an incredibly funny two-hander about two Jews who get approached by ex-gangster Malcom Spivack at their grandfather’s funeral with a simple proposition: do you want in on kidnapping Jeremy Corbyn?
If you want a panto, consider heading down to Stratford East for Mamma Goose, a new panto written and directed by Tonderai Munyevu, an incredibly inventive creator whose play My Dad, Mugabe and Mewas a rare example of a good play about the writer and performer’s life.
Finally, if you want some grandees to ogle, the Orange Tree Theatre is doing a production of Sheridan’s The Rivals starring Robert Bathurst and Patricia Hodge. A popular playhouse with two big names, this one’s sold out already, but a few tickets have been held back to be released on Fridays at midday.
Bubbly Jubbly
Silly season starts on Monday. We hear from Norpell Wilberforce, a man who’s seen his fair share of corporate shindigs.
As I dodged the dominatrix for the seventh time, her paddle swishing past my tray of champagne, I realised that this definitely wasn’t normal catering work. Neither was it a normal modelling job.
At first, I thought it was a scam. An account with only a few hundred followers commenting under my Instagram post of a modelling shoot and then DMing me to ask if I wanted to work at a completely unspecified event ‘for a good rate’. I was sceptical but broke; always an uneven match.
Since then, I’ve worked on almost 100 events with various agencies in this shadow industry. Some are serious, like industry summits in oil tycoons’ Knightsbridge mansions hung with paintings by Gauguin and Warhol. Some are fashion launches where London’s A-list celebrities mingle under chandeliers and behind hulking Russian security guards, plucking champagne flutes from mannequins like me. Some are downright lurid, such as that over-zealous dominatrix who went beyond her brief of spanking guests and began assualting the staff too.
Reckon you’ll be at one of these events in the next month? Here are some tips from behind the green baize door.
If you see a waiter with a tray of full glasses, please god, do not put your dirty glass on it. Go and leave it at the bar or find someone taking away dirties. Nothing’s more off-putting than lipstick-smudged glasses next to clean ones. They’ll make guests forsake the whole tray.
For your own sake and everybody else’s, lighten up. One of the paradoxes of these events is that fancier events – particularly the fashion ones – are jammed with uptight guests. I’ll offer a group some Champagne. Everybody’s eyes swivel around at each other’s, all is silent, the stand-off has begun. If sufficient time elapses without anybody taking a glass, nobody wants to be the first. If somebody takes one, nobody wants to be the last, and suddenly everybody takes one. If you want a drink, have one! You’ll feel much less anxious if you do, and hopefully stop clutching your phone.
Don’t overcompensate on the drinks, though. You’ll just embarrass yourself and your company. At a recent event I worked, a couple went from blissfully slow-dancing together to a furiously hissed argument behind a statue. They stormed off in opposite directions, leaving a table of emptied cocktails behind them. Know when to call it a night.
It goes without saying that being rude looks so insecure, despite what many entitled guests seem to think. We’re hired for our looks but also for our charm. If you treat us respectfully, you’ll make everyone feel more at ease. I am actually quite pleased when an initially tricky guest softens their manner after I keep smiling at them. But let’s get there without the preamble.
The wastefulness of these events is astounding. I’ve watched as crates of Krug have been upended down sinks. Trays of canapés prepared by Michelin-starred chefs are emptied into bin bags, which are carried past homeless people on their way to the skip. The extravagance is the game.
Behind the opulence, there’s sadness here. Almost all staff are juggling some combination of acting, modelling, voiceovers, singing and dancing as they scrabble to make ends meet. Ageing beaus fight against the twilight of their modelling careers; in this industry, mid-30s is getting old. The same faces vanish between event seasons, reappearing more haggard each time. The plush carpets swallow my footfalls, and sometimes, walking the corridors beneath these events, I feel like a ghost in the flickering lights.
Let Me Put a Phone on My Head
We stopped by Spotify HQ last week to attend a talk with Jodie Harsh. The drag legend-slash-house DJ has been doing the rounds to promote her recent memoir. Entitled You Had To Be There: An Odyssey Through Noughties London, One Night at a Time, the book details Harsh’s journey from closeted, suburban teen in Canterbury to a stalwart of the London club scene, with each chapter named after a different nightclub from her past. Legendary shuttered venues like Boombox, The Astoria and The Cross are all namechecked and used as mechanisms with which to tell stories of Harsh’s celebrity encounters and also detail her battles with addiction.
It stands to reason then, that during an audience Q&A, someone asked Harsh where is good to go clubbing in the wake of these iconic spaces – where do we have to be today, per se? Sadly, after some consideration, the only recommendation the nightlife maven could muster was to suggest stopping by Feel It, her own weekly clubnight at Omeara in Southwark, London’s best equivalent to a circuit party. After being further pressed, she revealed she doesn’t go out much anymore: ‘I’m too busy at home writing books!’ she posited, with a nervous chuckle.
Thankfully, we’ve not hung up our clubbing boots just yet, and have come armed once again with some recommendations for where you can shake your tail feather – and unlike Ms Harsh, we can attest that we have no financial stake in any of these parties.
First up, a shout-out to a recent party thrown by Smut Press, an independent print publisher which also runs occasional raves throughout the year. Its third party of the year took place last Saturday, in its usual venue of The Distillery, a midsized warehouse nestled in Tottenham’s labyrinthine industrial estates. The event was flanked by perhaps the world’s most uncompromising doorman who, thankfully, was no testament to the crowd of friendly faces inside. Though it’s a queer party at its core, Saturday’s shindig attracted and warmly welcomed its LGBT regulars, as well as a healthy smattering of their straight counterparts, many of whom we heard remarking on the night’s chill and accessible vibe. We even spotted some jubilant straight guys who leaned all the way in, shedding their shirt to join the mass of homo flesh which circled the DJ decks in the centre of the room.
Also overheard amongst the crowd, a gay male DJ bemoaning the perils of landing a gig in London these days. Apparently, he has been ‘waitlisted’ by most of the city’s major queer parties for over a year on account of being a white, cisgender gay man. Could gay white DJs be the latest community to find themselves shivering on the margins? Watch this space.
Due to return to London next year, Club Smut’s winning combination of warm community vibes, lilting tech-house (courtesy of 2 boots, Michelle Manetti, Kasra V, and 131bpm at Saturday’s party), and a venue which conjures that wild, warehouse atmosphere, complete with loft seating areas for a debrief and scaldy gazebos sheltering its smoking area, makes this party one not to be missed.
In the more immediate future however, this Saturday marks the two year anniversary of Club Are. The party, which positions itself as part audiovisual exhibition, part club night, is returning to its home at Hackney Bridge for a day-into-night party which kicks off at 3pm. This bumper birthday edition will hero a new installation from Norwegian artist Fredrik Tjærandsen, who also exhibited at the very first Club Are two years ago. Clubgoers will be expected to two step around Tjærandsen’s latest creation to the sounds of sets by an exciting line-up which includes Angel D Lite, Luxe, source:link, plus secret guests (one of which we understand will be the Berlin-based, Irish DJ and occasional Berghain floorfiller Sally C, a treat worth showing up for). In the two short years since it started, Club Are has developed a well-deserved reputation as one of the hottest club nights in town – don’t miss your opportunity to see what all the fuss is about this weekend.
Finally, an oldie but a goodie - Fabric’s weekly Sunday night party C.A.Y.A (Come As You Are) is this week hosting a takeover by NIGHT manoeuvres, a recently formed duo comprising London-based DJ ABSOLUTE and London Grammar drummer Dot Major. The pair have assembled a stellar line-up which also boasts sets from Scuba, Mia Lily and Cameo Blush. It will be a sweet way to end the weekend – that is, if you’re still standing by then.
Wax on, Wax off
Given that it might be London’s coolest, most mysterious gallery, the grandiosity of Modern Art’s new piece of real estate is a surprise. The coyly-named dealer of cerebral and dour art is winding down its two spaces in Old Street and St. James’s to make room for this new flagship, whose sprawling frontage takes up two-thirds of Bennett Street and backs onto The Wolseley.
Currently visible to passing hedgefunders and cigar dealers are two strange faces from Joseph Yaeger’s solo exhibition, Polygrapher. In one painting, a woman stares open-mouthed and wet-eyed into the middle distance as a disembodied hand lowers a pipette in front of her. Next to her, a man – eyes and mouth resolutely closed – appears encased in quickly-drying candle wax. Though subtle, these are troubling, even grotesque, images, painted with a subtly warped realism.
Yaeger is one of the most distinctive and impressive painters working in London today. With little flair, he manages to imbue every image in this show with the irresistible sense that something traumatic and unnamed is happening. None of the paintings is graphic, but looking at them feels like watching a body horror film. Often, they appear to show some unknown and unwelcome treatment being administered – a blue-painted face; a syringe in the mouth. In the most disturbing one, a balding man stands naked by a closed door, grasping his buttocks.
He paints on canvases built up with many layers of gesso, a smooth white paint used for underlayers. The process creates arid, pockmarked surfaces that are rife with deep cracks and barnacle-like protrusions. It gives all of his subjects the same strange skin condition. Received wisdom among gauche art dealers and advisors is that juicy artworks sell best – colourful images of taut, ripe-looking subjects. If a nice Hockney or Warhol is a glass of OJ, the paintings in this show are mouthfuls of sand.
Enter with caution: this is a deeply disquieting exhibition, completely at odds with its glitzy locale. Visiting on a lunch break is not advisable, lest you return to your desk unable to shake its sickeningly uncanny visions. But go prepared for mild psychic devastation, and you won’t be disappointed.
A Little Bit of Liquor Sauce
Over the last decade, it has become increasingly challenging to eat badly in London, but more often than not, you can achieve that goal at one of the capital’s pie-and-mash shops. Now that’s not to say they’re all bad – some are really quite good. Maureen’s in Chrisp Street Market is one such option, but the one we’d really recommend to you is Goddards at Greenwich, just up from the Cutty Sark. Is it kept on its toes by the regular tourist footfall? Who knows. Either way, the pies are properly filled and juicy here, and you can double up and have a pudding and still have change from a 20-pound note, which really is something. Afterwards, you can rumble up Crooms Hill and have a gawp at Jonathan Sumption’s manor house, which enjoys the finest vista in the capital.
That’s that for this week, and what a sizeable outing it is. The biggest yet, and a wonderful sign that we’re ready to roll this weekly. If you’ve enjoyed it, please do recommend it to friends or family, and do remember that you can get in touch with us at editorial@the-fence.com with ideas and tips and pitches. Our next outing is our last one for the year, and what a year it’s been. Have a lovely weekend.
All the best,
TF