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Thursday, October 8, 2015

'Madame Roxy's Erotic Emporium' at the Scissorhand Barbershop, 7th October 2015

Thursday, October 8, 2015 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

Whether you're after hetero-vanilla glossy L.A. action or furtive brown-bag fetish ultraporn Madame Roxy's Erotic Emporium has you covered. Snugly nestled in a Soho back alley, the bulging shelves showcase a kaleidoscope of fetishes, from cheeky uniform kink to pregnancy porn to scat to snuff. If you're looking for toys, there's paddles, butt-plugs, vibrators - even an autodildonic motorised fuck-throne! There's even a peep show theatre in the basement, complete with the standard stained carpets and reams of tissue. 

Truly Madame Roxy's is everything anyone could ever want in a sex shop. 

A felt sex shop anyway.

Madame Roxy's is the latest project from one of my favourite artists, felt-wrangler extraordinaire Lucy Sparrow. I first saw her the 2013 Whitecross Street Festival, where her felt Rose West in the style Andy Warhol was drawing loud abuse from angry passers by. I figured any artist whose work inspires public threats to burn it is someone to pay attention to.

Sparrow really hit the big time with last year's Cornershop, recreating the contents of a local newsagent entirely from felt. All the big media cheeses weighed in, from The Daily Mail to Buzzfeed. Open for the summer, it was impressive in every regard, from the inspiration to the effort to the execution. At the time I wondered how Sparrow was going to top it - surely she's taken felt just about as far as it can go?

Not even close. Madame Roxy's is a quantum leap forward in felt - a punky, political, precision constructed art experience - something that makes the mind boggle the moment you step inside. Though made of felt, the shop has an instant verisimilitude - so much so that, on the first day of opening, an embarrassed businessman crept inside and tried to buy Viagra, the staff having to carefully explain that this is an art installation and not an actual sex shop.

First and most obviously, seeing graphic sexual acts rendered in fabric is funny. Felt is inherently unthreatening; recalling primary school arts and crafts or grandmotherly Christmas presents. A buttplug, normally plastic, shiny and rubbery, becomes huggable, the spanking paddles more likely to tickle a partner than sting them. Sparrow takes the invitingly tactile quality of felt as far towards perversion as it's possible to go; even felt watersports rendered in gold glitterpen and 'Vomit Vixens' ("The most revolting centrefold EVER!")  land on just the right side of sweet.

It'd be easy to stop there, but scattered amongst the shelves are works that seriously prick an audience's liberal consciences. "Some like it Hot.. Some Like it Sweet.. Some like it VIOLENT" depicts a man strangling a naked woman, "Snuff films presents: DEATH BY BEHEADING" shows two men slitting a young girl's throat and, in the most disturbing one I spotted, "No Legs. No Arms. Amputee Porn." appears to show a limbless, decomposing corpse.

It's in these unnerving titles that Madame Roxy's marks itself as truly special. Without them it'd be easy to level criticism that Sparrow is merely making a cute n' cuddly sex shop experience. Nobody wants to go into some bubblewrapped, self-censored fantasy slum designed for well-to-do middle classers who wouldn't dream of treading the cum-stained corridors of a genuine Soho establishment. 

That reticence, coupled with the dominance of internet porn, threatens the neighbouring (not felt) sex shops with extinction. After all, these days people prefer to pleasure themselves behind locked bedroom doors rather than popping into central London and furtively stuffing a brown paper bag under their coat. In the interests of research I popped over the road from Madame Roxy's and had a nice chat with the proprietor of Up West British Adult Shop. She was over the moon with the popularity of their new neighbour and called my attention to the fact that depicting many of the sex acts on Roxy's shelves are now illegal in this country (not, apparently, in felt form)

The two interiors make for a fascinating contrast, Sparrow's furry friendliness seems all the more amusing in comparison to the sea of glistening cellophane DVD wrappers and silicone rubber phalluses. Sadly these shops are probably going the way of the dodo, stamped out by a combination of online porn and skyrocketing rents. Soho, for decades an oasis of counterculture in the heart of London, is becoming gradually crushed under the weight of luxury flats and chintzy bespoke cakeries. 

Madame Roxy's reminds us that these places are a crucial part of Soho's psychological fabric - the seasoning that gives the neighourhood its distinctive atmosphere. Free from prudery, moral judgment and entirely sex positive, Madame Roxy's might be the best site-specific installation I've ever seen, ultimately the value of these establishments. It's a good thing too there's precious few people who'll publically sing their praises.  

But primarily, Madame Roxy's is entertaining, hilarious and, surprisingly, often kinda arousing. There's something for every persuasion on these carefully crafted and curated shelves. It's only open for a week, so I urge you to check it out as soon as possible. There's nothing else like it in London.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

'Valhalla' at Theatre 503, 3rd October 2015

Wednesday, October 7, 2015 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

 Rarely have I seen a man look as relieved as Paul Murphy at the end of Valhalla. 48 hours prior this production had been turned on its head with the unexpected departure of the leading man. And so at very short notice Murphy, the playwright, stepped in. It sounds foolhardy - how can you substitute for someone who's spent weeks rehearsing, develop a chemistry with your co-star and act around an on-stage copy of the script? It's the theatrical equivalent of a high-wire act sans safety net.

But here we are, watching an actor fly by the seat of his pants and, remarkably, it works. Helping is that Valhalla is a very strong piece of theatre. Set in a near-future where society has begun to collapse after a devastating global epidemic, we follow a couple, known only as Man (Paul Murphy) and Woman (Carolina Main). This crisis has exacerbated fault-lines in their marriage; he's working hard on curing the disease and she's struggling to conceive. In desperation they abandon the mainland to work from a remote house in Iceland, sequestering themselves away to concentrate on his research.

Though we spend the entirety of the play inside one sterile, brightly lit room, we're conscious of the massive Icelandic environment outside. Volcanoes bubble and hiss, thousand tonne glaciers creep and crack through valleys and fierce winds whip around the buildings. Something massive and primordial is bearing down on these two scientists: the weight of mythology banging on the doors and warping their lives. Sat in an empirical tower of reason, Man ignores these psychic reverberations while Woman begins to embrace them, with disturbing consequences.

From the off, Valhalla launches into a staccato rhythm that keeps audiences on their toes. Scenes are short and end abruptly with a blackout and musical sting that marks each minor cliffhanger and emotional revelation. The effect is that we watch two people gradually becoming unspun; each time the lights go up they've imperceptibly changed in subtle ways. By the time we reach the closing scenes they've both come a long way yet maintain the personalities and desires they had when we first met them. Theatre like this requires two rock-solid performances; the play would like a badly mixed souffle if one of the leads weren't up to snuff.

Thankfully both Murphy and Main are excellent. Somewhat aided by his character being a scientist who constantly reads his research papers, for the most part he gets away with having the script on stage. Naturally it's not an ideal way to perform, but I'd much rather suspend my disbelief than have an actor forget his lines and have to be prompted. Main, opposite him, is straightforwardly excellent. There's an electric wildness to her movements, a twitchy awkwardness that feels a little bit like a caged animal. Given that she's playing 'Woman', it's appropriate that her performance runs a gamut of femininity, layering elements of maternity, eroticism, professionalism and empathy. Simply put, she's dead fun to watch.

As events progress, the themes of the play tend towards confrontation. On the narrative surface is the conflict between the two characters. Just a little deeper lie broader dichotomies; man vs woman, science vs superstition, civilisation vs nature and so on. Eventually we zero in on questions of medical ethics, with a neat thematic dovetailing of disfiguring experiments and ancient Norse punishments.

This knotty ball of meaning climaxes in an ending that's surprising, joyous and slightly scary all at once. I won't spoil it here, but with perfect timing the director shocks the audience by turning out expectations of the form of the play on its head. It's brill.

Despite suffering a backstage nightmare, Valhalla is an unreserved success. It slots neatly into Theatre 503's growing catalogue of smartly symbolic, beautifully staged and fantastically performed plays, making it an easy recommendation. But special praise must go to Paul Murphy, who singlehandedly rescued the production by bravely putting himself in front of an audience at short notice. It could have gone so, so wrong. But it didn't. He deserves his applause.


Valhalla is at Theatre 503 until 24 October. Tickets here.

Monday, October 5, 2015

'5 Guys Chillin' at the King's Head Theatre, 2nd October 2015

Monday, October 5, 2015 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

Every entry to 5 Guys Chillin' comes with a free johnny and pouch of lube. This is a suitable harbinger to a show that communicates a dizzyingly varied amount of ways for guys to stick their dicks in one another. 

Aside from the obvious (anal, oral etc), we get detailed descriptions of bondage slings, watersports, fisting and even a multi-man merry-go-round spit roasting device. This is all couched in a woozy narcotic soup; nostrils tingling with the buzz of mandy, coke-addled brains twitching to life and teeth grinding to dust under the loving eyes of tina.

The titular '5 Guys' (all un-named) are played by Elliot Hadley, Tom Holloway, Damien Hughes, Michael Matrovski and Shri Patel. We meet them as they prepare to embark on a 'chill'; a lengthy fucking and drugs session in one of their flats. Shorn of a clear narrative, the 80 minute play is composed of; lengthy discussions in orgy etiquette (don't spend all night on your phone, don't gobble all the host's Viagra, don't invite friends over without asking); the ethics of STD infections and HIV transmission in group sex; a paean to recreational drug use; and the most outrageous stories each of them has.

Taken as a straight play this avalanche of hedonism would quickly become tiring. But 5 Guys Chilling is verbatim theatre - i.e. the script is composed of extracts from interviews. This allows the play to sidestep accusations of sensationalism and claim verisimilitude in documenting a the chemsex gay subculture.

Even so, there comes a moment about half-way when the pervy fun of watching fit gay guys cavorting around in harnesses and zip-up jock-straps starts to wear a bit thin. It's like getting used to a hot bath, and you get a bit blase as you watch yet another round of spit n' thrust buggery. But mid-way through there's a subtle change of gear as the physical thrills of stimulants and sex begin to take their toll.

One of the most successful moments is a touching monologue from Shri Patel about what it's like to be a gay Pakistani. Drawing back to more emotionally sincere territory, he explains that as his parent's only son there are incredibly strong societal pressures on him to get married, have children and take care of his elderly parents. Combining a vigorously active sex life with a traditional Muslim marriage sounds next to impossible, making his guide through this deadly (sadly probably literally) minefield utterly fascinating.

All the characters get these moments of sober honesty. We hear about times when things got too heavy even for these bold sexual pioneers. Being trussed up in a sling in a bondage club and then gang-raped; threatened at knife-point in your own home by a meth-addled psycho; your attention span shrinking as drugs mushify your mind; even the straightforward loss of intimacy and excitement that comes from indulging in pleasure to the exclusion of all else.

By the time the curtain falls the five men have become burnt out zombies. One man's face is smeared with blood, his mucous membranes having finally collapsed under a crystallised onslaught. Two more are blank-faced zoned out on the sofa, spikes dangling from their veins. Another is pale-faced and hunched, rocking back and forth, next to the motionless body of someone recovering from a seizure.

It's a painfully accurate dramatisation of how drug-induced euphoria contrasts with the inevitable comedown, when you've finally exhausted your serotonin reserves and your muscles ache from overexertion. But 5 Guys Chilling isn't ending on a note of condemnation, but with the intelligent, truthful portrayal of the effects of excess. Perhaps most notably, it leaves the audience to judge whether the highs are worth the crushing lows.

I've got to admit, for the first twenty to thirty minutes I had some reservations. I suspected that whatever substance there was to the play was in service of providing several good-looking nearly naked young men for the primarily gay male audience to ogle. I also found it initially lacking in comparison to the King's Head's recent production of Fucking Men, which successfully wove sexual thrills into social commentary. 

Fortunately the gradual shift in tone towards introspection and consequences won me over. On a basic level it's refreshing to see theatre so at ease with sexuality and drug use, leaving prudery firmly at the stage door. But importantly, 5 Guys Chilling not only entertained but informed (teaching me some interesting things about non-detectable HIV transmission rates). 

It'd be all too easy to stage a paper-thin, cock-hardeningly-pornographic exploration of this subculture. But 5 Guys Chilling goes deeper asking what it really means to be a 21st century libertine. 


5 Guys Chilling is at the King's Head Theatre until 24 October. Tickets here.

Saturday, October 3, 2015

'Nobody's Business' at the King's Head Theatre, 2nd October 2015

Saturday, October 3, 2015 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

I properly laughed once during Nobody's Business. A dog has been mistaken for a person; resulting in this exchange: 

"So what is she?

"She's a Boxer."

"... amateur or professional?"

It's a solid joke, delivered well to boot. It also proves to be the only unambiguously successful gag all evening. There are few things worse than an unfunny comedy, one-liners greeted by uncomfortable silences as the actors' eyes flicker around the audience searching for a smile. Nobody's Business isn't the most unfunny comedy I've ever sat through but it's pretty bad, settling roughly at the level of unsuccessful-mid-90s-teatime-sitcom-pilot-episode.

Set in a shabby complex of rented offices, we follow the variable fortunes of Hugo Roth (Tristan Beint), whose talents lie in negotiating EU bureaucracy and securing development grants for inventors. Despite projecting a go-getter image he's down on his luck, parasitically attached to his artist girlfriend Imogen (Claire Jeater) and pressed for rent by office landlords Howard (Stephen Oswald) and Sybil (Katy Manning). But there's light at the end of the tunnel in the form of inventor Neville (Jeremy Drakes), who's brainchild is a collapsible motorised shopping trolley that becomes known as the "Shop-a-doodle-doo".

Ordinarily I'd give Nobody's Business a vicious critical kicking, but instead I find myself pitying it. After all, the cast does their utmost to wring every molecule of comedy out of Sylvia Freedman's script. It's obvious that Tristan Beint is a talented comedy actor, but his posturing, pompous character is a diluted, dusty old archetype. To various degrees this applies to the rest of the cast, who we watch futilely grapple with paper-thin characterisation and duff dialogue. Katy Manning comes out best, primarily because she throws herself around the stage with infectiously enthusiastic gusto (though she should give it some welly as I suspect this whole affair is intended as a vehicle for her).

But you can't really overlook that none of this is particularly funny. Everything is suffused with safe, inoffensive humour; jokes about curried beans making you fart; people with foreign accents yelling angrily; or a man burning his bum on a barbecue. Not exactly helping is that one of the characters is called Sybil (with her name being loudly yelled throughout the story). You can't help but think of Fawlty Towers - a comparison by which even a genuinely funny play would suffer.

Even the non-comedy portions don't make a huge deal of sense. A smattering: Imogen and Hugo, are supposed to be a long term relationship with (we are told) a surprisingly good sex-life, yet there's zero chemistry between them to the point that they may as well be strangers. Similarly, the convoluted relationship between the two landlords/owners/concierges of the building is never satisfyingly outlined. Even the MacGuffin at the centre of the story, the motorised, compact shopping cart, is a poor choice of invention. The dialogue keeps extolling its qualities, but it's obvious that this dowdy prop isn't going to actually do anything surprising.

Individually none of these flaws would be disastrous, but in combination with the moribund gags and two hour running time it adds up to a dull theatrical experience.  I'll grant that maybe, given how confusingly popular terrible sitcoms can be, material like this does have a home. But it's not here; in comparison to the King's Head Theatre's usual fare Nobody's Business is stodgy, old-fashioned and not very funny.


Nobody's Business is at the King's Head Theatre until 24th October. Tickets here.

Friday, October 2, 2015

'Flush' at the Etcetera Theatre, 30th September 2015

Friday, October 2, 2015 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

Though 11 years old, David Dipper's Flush has stood the test of time. Set in a contemporary London the play charts the tangled lives of some unpleasant young urbanites, all filtered through the prism of poker. The game is a constant presence; chips clattering across a coffee table and cards are shuffled and flipped. Quickly we realise that these characters are probing one another, searching for chinks in their emotional armour and exploiting them for all they're worth.

With a chronologically cut-up narrative and scant regard for the fourth wall, Flush encourages its audience to play detective. From the off we understand that dark acts lurk at the heart of the play, yet who they're committed by and to remains vague. None of the characters are very attractive people; being variously sweaty losers, sadistic lotharios, sociopaths or sadistically violent drug abusing headcases.

Regardless, these reprobates are the cards the audience is dealt, and we try our best to shuffle our hand into some kind of recognisable order. The constant spout of revelations act as the flop; working out who's fucking over whom and which character is going to end up as the chump. 

Despite the fact that we're gazing into a moral abyss, it's impressive how darkly funny these characters can be. Shane Wheeler's Charlie stands out as able to get away with saying the most brutal dialogue (for example, gleefully describing the rape and murdering a teenage) and getting a guilty giggle from the audience. Both character and performer successfully take refuge in audacity; his stories grow ever more perverse and bizarre the more we like him.

Also fun (though in a different way) is Grant Reeves' city boy Cupid. Without one word of dialogue we understand who is; his slicked back hair and chunkily expensive diver's speaking volumes. The character exudes predatory dangerousness, combining feline good looks with something cold and calculating. There's a scene where he reflexively seduces another character's girlfriend, successfully going through the motions as if it's just something he does.

All five actors eventually expose their character's dark hearts; all showing their hands as their secrets are splurged across the stage. It's all pretty compelling drama, if only to hear what atrocity they're going to concoct next. Sometimes there's a sense that this is being written to shock: a particularly eyebrow-raising moment being when one character is being needled by another about his unfaithful girlfriend, but reassures himself by "remembering when his sister got raped." Woah nelly! None more black! Mega-darrrrrk!

Moments like these belie a slight immaturity in the writing, but I don't really mind a punkish desire to rattle a few cages - at least the play never gets boring. Helping matters is that at a svelte 50 minutes the play zips along at a impressive rate. 

Consequentiall, there's little stagecraft involved and perfunctory set-design, but smart music design goes a long way towards creating atmosphere. To some, opening with almost the entirety of Smashmouth's mid-90s hit Walking on the Sun will say everything about the characters and events to follow.

Flush is a pretty damn good piece of fringe theatre and a promising debut for Break Point Theatre. It doesn't over-reach, doesn't waste the audience's time and has no qualms about morality and prudery. Best of all the show has the good sense to just let these actors have fun with their roles, all of whom are played with obvious relish. Not the most ambitious night of theatre about, but a worthwhile one nonetheless.


Flush is at the Etcetera Theatre until 4th October. Tickets here.

Thursday, October 1, 2015

'Beasts of No Nation' (2015) directed by Cary Fukunaga (London Film Festival 2015)

Thursday, October 1, 2015 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

Beasts of No Nation spends two hours showing us the physical and moral degradation of an innocent child. It's violent, politically uncomfortable and deeply disturbing cinema that goes places most studios wouldn't. Despite this, it's also a downright beautiful, exciting and thematically seductive story that reels you in and spits you out.

Set in an unnamed African nation, we find ourselves in just another day in an anonymous every-war. A vaguely defined government battles against even more fuzzily defined guerrilla rebels. Caught in the 'buffer zone' is Agu (Abraham Attah), a young boy in a respected local family. Refugees from the battlefield trickle through his village each day, his father having set aside land to temporarily house them. 

This oasis vanishes when soldiers arrive and indiscriminately massacre the terrified villagers. With Agu's family dead the terrified boy runs into the bush, where he's eventually captured by the otherwise un-named Commandant (Idris Elba). He's cruel, unhinged and sadistic, yet brims over with magnetic charisma, his battalion worshipping him as their collective father. Like a moth to a flame Agu is drawn to him, quickly becoming a murderous, drugged out child soldier bereft of conscience.

It makes for compelling viewing, largely because Fukunaga isn't afraid to portray the initial stages of Agu's transformation as romantic and exciting. This turns out to be a sly perversion of the Campbellian hero's journey: the orphaned child going on a quest under the tutelage of a wiser father figure and ending up transformed. Yet while the Campbellian hero saves the day and evolves into a wise, competent and fully-rounded adult, Agu ends up a hollow-eyed shell having achieved nothing.

That Fukunaga adheres so closely to these archetypes  while simultaneously inverting them screws with audience expectations. On reading a synopsis you'd expect to despise the Elba character - perhaps associating him with hazy memories of Kony 2012. Yet despite all the moral and physical horrors his character wreaks, Elba imbues the role with so much raw charisma that we can't help but find ourselves in thrall to him. It sounds sick, but you can understand why people would follow his orders and abandon their conscience.

Elba's performance is elevated by woozily psychedelic cinematography that turns the warzone into a hyper-real, oversaturated dreamworld. This (in combination with intentionally disorientating editing) conveys the effect of the amphetamines and cannabis that the soldiers constantly take. It's a suffocating bad trip, bullets whizzing past the camera, screams, grass distorted to deep reds and constant random acts of background brutality. This is all scored by an excellent synth-led score by Dan Romer and results in a kind of cinematic sensory overload. 

There's more than a sprinkling of Terence Malick's The Thin Red Line here, especially during Abu's monotone, philosophic voice-over. But it doesn't feel much like Fukunaga is ripping off Malick so much as he's playing with the same tool-set; deconstructing the imagery and emotions of war movies to understand what's going on in their character's heads. This psychological focus echoes Fukunaga's work on True Detective, which also has as much time for the protagonist's psychology as it does the narrative.

None of this would work without a rock-solid central performance, something Abraham Attah more than delivers. I don't know who discovered this young actor, but they deserve some kind of award for unearthing new talent. He's brilliant from minute one, as credible as a bright-eyed mischievous child as he is a burnt out AK-47 wielding psychopath. As good as Elba is (i.e. really good), his performance largely works because we can sense the awe in Attah's face when the two interact.

Beasts is the first film acquired for distribution by Netflix and seeing their logo projected across a cinema screen is a slightly surreal experience. Yet if Beasts is anything to go by the company is going to shake things up a bit. It's a depressing thing to note, but the fact that the film features no white characters (even in incidental roles) would probably make it untouchable by major studios. But Netflix, swimming in cash and with a pre-paid subscription audience, can afford to take 'risks'.

And thank god they did, because Beasts of No Nation is a damn fine piece of cinema. From the sound design, the costuming, the editing, set design and location scouting everything is top notch. It feels like the first proper shoe-in for a boatload of award nominations, particularly for Elba and Attah's performances. Best of all, it's going to be streaming to all Netflix subscribers in a couple of weeks. It's a must watch.


Beasts of No Nation is available for streaming (and released in Curzon cinemas) on 16 October 2015 

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

'Icebar London Rocks!' at the Ice Bar, 27th September 2015

Wednesday, September 30, 2015 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

The Ice Bar is cool. 

Yes, yes, that might be the shittest pun I've ever made but it really is dead cool. Ordinarily I'd find myself in natural opposition to a novelty bar in the moneyed heart of Mayfair that costs £15 get into. Frankly, the simple act of hanging out in these swanky places gives me unpleasant guilty shivers. Y'know, I don't want to literally be a champagne socialist. Even so, I can't deny that a bar where damn near everything is made of ice isn't a super fun to hang out.

On entering you're encouraged to don an insulating poncho with a furred hood, complete with extremely warm gloves. This proves to be good advice, even the glasses that they serve the booze in are made of ice (fortunately they don't appear to glue themselves onto your lips). The ice bar concept isn't entirely new (I remember seeing something similar in awful Bond film Die Another Day), but still, simply being there and watching the way light moves through these gigantic chunks of ice is aesthetically pleasing.

The place goes through changes of theme every so often, the new one being rock-themed. With cocktails named Comfortably Numb and November Rain (etc etc) it's a bit Hard Rock Cafe, but at least this allows them to exhibit two gigantic ice sculpted skulls that you can pose inside. Indeed, much of the interior seems designed to encourage visitors to snap photos of them and their friends enjoying the novelty surroundings. In one corner there's a throne to perch on, in another an ice drum-kit to pose behind - I'm unable to resist taking a couple of snaps myself - after all when on earth am I ever going to see this much ice again?

Given that it's literally freezing you can't spend all night hanging out here. Eventually your toes begin to tingle and fingers go numb (even through the gloves). I had a chat to the warmly wrapped up barman (apparently enjoying himself despite hailing from balmy southern Italy), who explained they have tightly regulated lengths on their shifts, ensuring they don't end up frozen solid.. After all,  alcohol, dancing and insulated ponchos can only stave off the cold for so long. But as you step back into the warmer real world it feels stimulating and fresh, a bit like enjoying a reverse sauna.

As a one-off novelty the Ice Bar is genuinely fun. Unless you're a homesick penguin it's unlikely to end up as your local, but if you're looking for something to add a bit of chilly fizz and crackle to a special night out you could do a lot worse.

Ice Bar is at 31-33 Heddon Street, W1B 4BN

London City Nights was invited to a promotional event hosted by Ice Bar, and provided with free food and drink.

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