Capital Vices or Cardinal Sins...

The Catholic Church, as only it could, initially divided sin into two types: ‘Venial Sins,' which are relatively minor and the more severe ‘Capital’ or Mortal Sins. Apparently mortal sins destroy the life of grace, and create the threat of eternal damnation unless absolved through the sacrament of Confession. Scary stuff. Ultimately both forms of sin could be forgiven by The Church; it all depended on how large a donation you make at the end of mass. Direct debits, cheques and bank transfers are also accepted means of easing the path to forgiveness I'm reliably informed.

Whilst the concept of sin is pretty easy to grasp The Church decided to also opt for a seven stroke approach just to really clarify what counts as sinful activity and ensure that at some stage we have all fallen and so must pay up or burn in damnation. I therefore have to admit that I have fallen and fallen hard. Yes, I have sinned. There is no need for Tom Hank’s Langdom to race around a Parisian art gallery or decrepit cathedral chasing an assortment of cryptic clues, battling with The Illuminate, even Opus Dei can rest easy, I will save time and admit I have been seduced by the deed considered to be the original and most serious of the deadly seven. Indeed the ultimate source from which the others arise. It is identified as a desire to be more important or attractive than others, failing to acknowledge the good work of others and excessive self love.

Superbia/Hubris/Vainglory – three names, one meaning, Pride. Just as Lucifer succumb to it, desiring to compete with God resulting in a speedy fall from heaven, I too have stumbled on the path. The penny jar next to my desk has started to quiver and turn green knowing well that it is about to vomit out it’s contents to ensure my easy passage back into the light. Whilst in Dante's Divine Comedy, the penitents were forced to walk with stone slabs bearing down on their backs in order to induce feelings of humility I have opted for a brief journey back to Cambridge for the night, a full rucksack with a lap top and charger inside strapped to me tortoise-like to serve as penance for the pride I feel over completing my fifth blog.

In the past I have succumbed to Sloth and so to combat this I have imposed deadlines, ensuring a blog gets written, edited and published in a timely fashion, creating a cathartic sense of worth even though I’m pretty sure no one is reading my ramblings. In the past I have fallen foul to these ‘deadlines’ and felt a gravitational pull towards Adams’ view in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." With this the fifth instalment of my life in and around Soho I am proud to see the virtual pages stack up. Initial hesitation has given way to enthusiasm, for now, and whilst there is little point in producing a blog and sending out my thoughts into the ethereal abyss, even if eternal damnation or an empty bank account is the end result, I am proud of what I've produced and so embrace this sin.

To keep Pride and Sloth from getting lonely Michelin starred Gluttony has at times appeared in my life and so I found my recent work-imposed trip to Manchester via the 9.42am train from Euston a bit of a squeeze. Like all things Virgin it was a tight fit. Their trains, planes and I imagine their future 'Galactic Express' promising to launch us into 2012 are all designed to fit the slimmer gentleman. Whilst maintaining the status of a man of means I am well proportioned edging towards a more ample stature. Due to the financial implications I’m not overly concerned that I won’t be comfortable on the Virgin rocket, at $200,000 a pop it’s not looking likely that I will appear on the passenger shortlist. However with a planned trajectory overlapping the Earth’s atmosphere at 70,000 feet (21,000 meters) and the sub-orbital journey it’s the short period of weightlessness which really does appeal especially after lunch.
 
Manchester was work and I can't really justify writing much more than to confirm that the most exciting part was leaving. Returning home and walking through Soho you can hear, see and unfortunately smell all seven sins on offer. Open doors with provocative signs promising somewhat optimistically 'models,' exclusive member-only clubs full of A to Z listers and their sycophants, £5 eat as much as you can Chinese buffets on every corner and Greek Street's L'Escargot pushing heart-attack inducing foie gras and gravlax de salmon for the same price of a bungalow in Surrey. Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride, each supposed to strike fear into the church going masses however to an agnostic such as me they each in turn form the components of a promising night out.

It amazes me how women have friends they just don't like...

It amazes me how women have friends they just don't like. Last summer a close friend of mine asked me to be her +1 at the wedding of her lifelong best friend who, she admits when pushed, she doesn't really enjoy spending time with and has let her down more times than she can count.

The Hampshire venue was one of those majestic stately piles, a neo-gothic book mark serving as a reminder of how gloriously wealthy and decadent the past was when fortunes equalled dresses in their vastness and even 'the help' had staff. Sadly time moved on and if the in-bred Lord hadn't blown his ancestors copper fortune on rent-boys, opium and the kind of parties that would leave even 'One Night in Paris' blushing, Harcourt's 1894 introduction of death duties and the 1st World War would ensure these grand houses fell out of private hands, becoming a country curiosity enabling the normal folk to play aristocrat for the day.

Thanks to it being pay day and to make a weekend of it we decided to stay the night expecting a good party and entertaining night fuelled by a complimentary bar. Once booked into the Windsor Suite, outfits tweaked and hair freshly fluffed, a short drive followed by three large G&T's we faced the village church with suitable gusto. Threats of eternal damnation, promises of faithfulness and donations for the roof made and purgatory was over. Hallelujah! An entertaining drive down country lanes avoiding pheasants, following a dated silver Golf crammed with pink-clad bridesmaids and we arrived back at the oak panelled pile. Polite conversation, escapes attempted, seating plan read and finally food was served whilst the harpist frantically plucked away.

Mumm was quickly replaced with sparkling wine and so once again Gordon's stepped in with a little assistance from tonic. As the evening began to fade a well watered bridezilla thundered towards us, mascara streaming, and through the tears announced that her wedding was 'an utter disaster,' '...a total and utter nightmare!' All in earshot of her father who was at least £35,000 worse off thanks to his charming princess and her apparently unfulfilled demands. Our retreat was quickly accomplished and we hurtled back to our Laura Ashley draped four poster to evaluate the day, my companion admitting that she couldn't stand her best friend. However, and this is the bit I'll never understand, she would still send her a quick text later in the week to organise post-honeymoon catch up drinks. This was quickly followed by 'she can't help being a spoilt cow.'

In contrast to this us boys only have mates who we actually like. Most of our conversation circles around things which come with LCDs/LEDs/STDs and legs, cars which go faster 0-60 than my attention span during a party political broadcast and how ugly Nick's new girlfriend is. We enjoy being with like-minded souls who won't cry over lunch or give you a look of utter disgust when you suggest 'just one more - for the road.'

Women however seem to have carefully selected and regularly audited groups of friends many of whom they don't really like but still meet up with for catch-up sessions noisily bursting with delight over iced tea from Long Island and gossiping about the latest 'facts' in low lit, high priced bars. They then go home wondering why they just blew a months pay on drinks with people they wouldn't save from a burning building.

I don't believe even they know why this is, I'm certainly not brave enough to ask, but the whole girl friendship thing has always puzzled me.

To be honest I've always had a bit of an issue with the concept of 'friends.' Don't get the wrong idea, there's no Tommy-no-mates story here, I have accumulated a respectfully sized group of them over the years and regard a number as close. If Facebook is to believed I have collected over 150 to date and, thanks to my rule of only accepting people who I have actually met in person, I know more than just their email address and IM tag.

Myspace, the breading ground of bands which will never quite make it, passed me by thanks to a real life and I successfully avoided 'people-you-hoped-you-would-never-see-again - now reunited' the thought of which filled me with dread. There are reasons I chose not to keep in touch with someone who remembers a 15 year old me with bleached orange hair and a regularly squeezed crop of pimples.

Thankfully I also never felt the desire, or had the need, to join an online dating site. A colleague, who had at the time over 12 profiles and a fiancee in Brazil, reliably informed me that these were for those looking for a no-strings shag rather than a deep, meaningful relationship. Those searching for that someone special to sit in front of roaring log fires with whilst sipping Chateau Neuf De Pap and gobbling a combination of milk tray and each others faces, the image the dating websites like to portray rather than the quick fix shagfest actually on offer, best look elsewhere.

Whilst the occasional urge for some no-strings release sourced via the lap-top and a monthly deduction discreetly appearing on my credit card statement sounds like fun I have always been of the opinion that god created clubs and bars to enable people to pull and that it was only natural to view a potential conquest in this habitat. The abundance of confidence in liquid form encapsulated in a one inch glass, two centimetres for those of you not of a metric disposition, also eases the process and improves the chances of a successful kill for both parties. There are exceptions to this rule which I am sure to cover another time but for now I'll stick to my conclusion that when dating 'real' is always better than 'virtual.'

However with the cyber-birth of the blue logo'd Facebook I was dragged into the fold by a select group of converts claiming I'm not actually real until my innermost thoughts are accessible through a click on that little blue icon. I therefore now have a Facebook 'presence' which, after initially being hesitant to trust, is now teeming with all that is Me. Memories via my daily updated gallery, hourly status and links to my 'significant other' profile telling anyone accepted that yes I have a boyfriend and yes I was very happily married for 6 years to a girl.

In the majority of cases this revelation has not shocked those invited or accepted into the blue icon guarded inner sanctum of my virtual Facebook world giving them a gentle introduction into how I tick. So I'm now straddling both worlds, virtual and real, thankfully finding a pleasant middle ground, blogging is yet another affirmation of my virtual online self balancing out the real.

As the train hurtles back to Euston, the relief that I've escaped after a week held captive in a soulless cement clad conference centre on the edge of a rainy, gray, overcoat shrouded Manchester. Soho and all it can offer beckons and I can't wait...

So...what to write...

So...what to write...as the saying goes, so many blogs, so little time. So why should anyone dedicate their valuable spare moments to reading this when they could be surfing the web for something with the potential to be far more exciting such as 101 flavours of porn or how to remove a kidney with a broken milk bottle and a squirt of fairy liquid.......What makes me so special to think that anyone outside of my immediate family would be interested in the day to day goings on in my life and the corridors of Babylon also known as London Soho? Well, hopefully a large G&T, mainly G, a barrel of M&S' mini rolls and the desire to appear busy at my desk whilst actually doing anything but work will inspire me, so lets see where we end up.

From my desk/dining table/potential nuclear bomb shelter peering through a rather grubby window across the roof tops of Greek Street, looking down Old Compton towards Ed's Diner one way, G.A.Y. and American Retro to the other I can see the throngs of 'individuals' clad in their aptly named Birkenstocks, Burks-in-socks, and those annoyingly indecisive half-trousers, not quite short enough to be shorts and yet unable to stretch to the ankles ruling them out of the trouser gang. These packs of marketing managers, advertising execs and PA's jostle with bronzed gymbox boys clambering for a front row seat outside Balans, Bar Soho and Cafe 'corporate' Boheme with it's copper bar and similarly-coloured enticingly cute waiters.

It's late June, it's summer and it's hot. Blissfully hot. Unsurprisingly Compton's is full and spilling out onto the street the usual mix of men, boys and indefinables. The barefooted, orange clad Krishna with his desperately eager smile and dead eyes finger-tings his way past groups of Matthew's, Luke's, Jennifer's and wannabies, greeted with a assortment of nervous smiles, blankness and the odd drunken glare. I can almost smell the heat, stale beer, Spanish sweat and hot rubber - thank god for aircon and the humming Argos 'extra' fan I have aiming every 8 seconds at my back.

Since calling myself a 'Westminster Resident' and more specifically the temporary custodian of a tiny studio in the eves of what was once a fine old building I have become fascinated by the street's history as well as the surrounding area. Poor old god fearing Henry Compton would be joining the masses on a Friday night and vomiting outside Kettners if he could see what's become of his namesake street. His church which once proudly stood near the crossing of Greek and Compton now lost to overpriced hamburgers and lumpy milkshakes. God only knows what the founders of what is now the Walkabout would make of it all.

Being a country boy of origin and at heart and whilst still maintaining a deceptively named 'country house' somewhere in the Cambridgeshire / Suffolk mud I have always lusted after the idea of living centrally. I dabbled in a past life but I don't think East London really counts as being in the thick of it. Lets see how this new one pans out...

Any case I digress, what is this blog going to become? A history lesson? PLEASE NO! so, the gentile ramblings of a guy watching Soho-World go by.........sounds about right..........oh well...............until the next time...............