Old Soho Remembered: Recollecting the Eighties with Nicholas Cox

Soho holds a special place in the hearts of many, evoking cherished memories that are often deeply personal. In this article, Nicholas Cox takes us on a nostalgic journey through time in his recollection of Old Soho Remembered…

“Money just existed, cheques could be cashed at pubs. There was no worry about pensions, people didn’t live that long in Soho.”

I started coming to Soho in 1981. I was bedsitting in Earls Court or Shepherds Bush and getting the east bound underground to “go up west” always seemed incongruous. I didn’t come for the fashion shopping. In those days Carnaby Street sold overpriced punk rock tee shirts to tourists, and my wardrobe refresh consisted of an annual visit to Dicky Dirts on Westbourne Grove. I’d visit Soho on my way to the Marquee Club, the 100 Club, or more often than not, the cinemas around Leicester Square, and I’d start off in Soho because the pubs were cheaper.

Eighties Soho was not for the fainthearted. The caped and cravatted old queens that winked at you from the other end of the bar were older than my father, and the chain-smoking sex workers that called to you from the doorways were older than my mother. But when you learnt to look past all that you realised that Soho had a unique “Je ne sais quoi”. Thatcherism was on the rise and money had become more important than drink or sex. It was not a law but something stronger, in that decade particularly, that made money the benchmark of success. The Yuppies would say, ‘The only sin is to be skint”, but not in Soho, it didn’t care whether you were skint or not. Money just existed, cheques could be cashed at pubs. There was no worry about pensions, people didn’t live that long in Soho.

Pubs were closed by law between 3 and 5.30pm so the afternoon drinking club was invented. Before I saw one, I’d imagined sitting in a Chesterfield leather armchair gently sipping scotch and soda, but the reality was different. They used to be everywhere in Soho, and each had its special clientele. Keith Waterhouse remembers the highs and lows of Soho’s boozy, artistic bohemian culture in his novel, ‘Thinks‘ with its excruciatingly precise description of the Kismet Club in a basement off Cranbourne Street, known as “The Iron Lung” and inevitably abbreviated to just “The Lung”, it was notorious for its reek of old snout and mildew. Waterhouse describes a visitor inquiring “What’s that smell?”

“Failure.” was the reply.

In the ‘80s it seemed that Soho was unchanging, but that was an illusion. The end started in 1988, when the licensing laws changed. After almost three quarters of a century, politicians finally decided that we were old enough to have a drink in the afternoon without reeling back sozzled to turn out dodgy munitions and damage the war effort. That in turn spelt the end of the afternoon drinking clubs. The final nail in the coffin came on the 1st of July 2007, when it became illegal to smoke in any pub, restaurant, or nightclub.

About time too, arguably, and to hell with the smoke! Never mind the aesthetic, the curling plume caught in the sunlight, or the romantic, lighting two cigarettes with one match, the cupped hands and heads touching over the flame. I don’t miss the foul atmosphere, the cough, the sheer embedded, stale, dodgy reek of beer-sodden carpets and abominably reduced visibility. I’ll take a properly ventilated bar over a smoky old dive any day.

But it wasn’t the changes to the drinking and smoking laws that killed old Soho. In the end, Thatcher prevailed and there are no longer enough people who value the arts above money. The first thing they teach students in art college is how to make out an invoice. When the young would rather text than speak, who goes to a pub to talk, debate, or argue with each other?

Written by Nicholas Cox @njcoxx | Photos: Kai Lutterodt / My Soho Times

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