The MP and the fantasy novelist... that’s a hairy date
FUNNY place, Soho. I say that as someone for whom it has an almost magnetic pull whenever I set foot in London’s fair town. Before you even ask, I’ve never even been in one of its strip clubs or the shops specialising in publications for, shall we say, the discerning gentleman.
Even though it is a tiny corner of the city largely devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, it is also a study in contrasts. My affection has always been based on how the most downmarket of joints sits happily right next to temples of high cool.
Let me give you an example. The weekend before last I happened to be attending a performance at the Albert Hall and, afterwards, I made my way to Soho and stopped off for a preprandial beverage in one of its many raggedy-looking pubs.
By rights, this place should have at least made me feel slightly queasy. I’m no interior designer, but the decor looked like it has been last updated sometime just before the Industrial Revolution.
Meanwhile, the tables were sticky with the residue of congealed beer spillages that didn’t date from any time in the recent past. Put it this way, every time I put my pint glass down on the bar counter, I practically needed a pen knife to prise it back up again afterwards.
But the atmosphere was full of the buzz of people determined to have a good time, even if it was Sunday and the working week beckoned in the morning. Best of all, an extremely rotund lady of a certain age sat down at the piano and kicked off an impromptu sing-song that included My Old Man Said Follow The Van and other classics.
Yet within three minutes of leaving there, I was being shown to a table at one of the city’s most glamorous restaurants (the Dean Street Townhouse, since you ask) for an evening of very pleasant wining and dining. I should say that this particular establishment has hosted the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Moss, Bryan Ferry, Naomi Campbell, Anne Hathaway and other A-listers.
Needless to say, none of them were there the night I visited. But I did spot Michael Fabricant, the Tory MP whose remarkable coiffure seems to combine all the worst elements of the hairdos sported by Donald Trump, Boris Johnson and Worzel Gummidge.
Being only 99.9% certain it was him, I used my mobilet to take a handful of discreet photos so that a particular friend could verify the great man’s identity. (And, yes, it was him.)
But it was only later that Mrs O revealed how I’d somehow managed to use the flash on my iPhone while taking these snaps, so despite my best intentions, I had actually been about as subtle as a sledgehammer.
But I digress. I should mention at this point that Mr Fabricant was named earlier this week on a list of MPs accused of ‘inappropriate behaviour’, an allegation which he strongly denies. It was slightly odd to see him turning up on a celebrity edition of First Dates just a few days later, but the timing was presumably coincidental.
By any reckoning, it was a remarkable performance. His date, a 61-year-old fantasy novelist called Jan, seemed rather on the highly strung side. ‘This is going to be hilarious,’ said the Right Honourable Member for Lichfield as they were led into the dining area. He wasn’t joking.
Things hotted up when Jan accused him of wearing a wig. It sounded like an entirely reasonable point on her part, to be fair, but the 67-year-old responded by describing the suggestion as ‘aggressive and unpleasant’.
Still, he didn’t look too miffed when he was filmed admiring his crowning glory in the mirror when he went to the bathroom. He returned to discover that Jan had used his absence to phone a friend, who told her it wasn’t a wig.
Her apologies fell on deaf ears. ‘Anyway, whatever... can we not discuss hair?’ he sniffed. ‘I won’t discuss your breasts if you promise not to discuss my hair.’
At this point, they clinked glasses and agreed to start afresh. But it was already clear that any romance was less likely than Mr Fabricant being hired as the lead model in a new ad campaign for Timotei shampoo.