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—For Fraser Macintosh, in memory— THERE WAS AN almost 1920s, young-sophisticate’s soirée-parlour feel to this place between London’s Long Acre, Drury Lane and the cold chrome luxuries of lawyers’ lounges and notary public palaces on Kingsway. The solitary concession it made to self-advertisement — in admirable contrast to some of its regulars — was a modest twelve-inch-square brass plaque, well and truly screwed to the textured fawn wall left of the doors and engraved The Madagascar in opulent, writhing script. The Madagascar had never needed to solicit for its clientele: a gristle-free slice of upward mobility business-types; running from suave crooks, through wily middle-aged barristers and effeminate pop personalities, back to suave crooks via every society-page deviant, scandal column tart, tonsorial queen and costly-scam-monger in the land. From outside, the Madagascar tried hard to look anonymous and on most nights succeeded to be. It tried hard because many of its swollen-pocketed customers existed solely for the thrill of drawing attention to themselves, in whichever ways they privately considered to be the most acceptably outrageous. Some of these were legal and some were not. They opportuned treatment, preparations and merchandise — perishable and non-perishable — sold on the premises openly and otherwise by the proprietor and private entrepreneurs in transactions both licit and illicit. It needed to try hard because otherwise it would cease to be the Madagascar and become just another ‘place’. An unprepossessing daily flow of tourist oglers must have thought the inhabitants of the tinted-glass Madagascar vivarium — this priceless collection of haircuts — to be poor sport; nocturnal zoo exhibits camouflaged by their habitat of exorbitantly-priced champagne cocktails, ice-buckets, bar stools and crocodile wallets. Though rumoured to be a colourful, extrovert and highly exciting sub-species, they reserved their bright, fast antics and sexually alluring plumage for the incestuous titillation of their own kind; obscured by thousands of pounds worth of wooden-slatted venetian blind and a lush rainforest of swanky hired plants with waxen leaves like astro-turf baseball diamonds. Swinging detective inspectors of the Metropolitan Police Force had never been known to frequent the Madagascar. Not one officer had found cause to cross its air-conditioned threshold in pursuit since it was opened in the mid-seventies by a North London estate agent shyster with an eye for a re-development zone, a consortium of speculative financiers and a trendy partnership specialising in extortionate interior design. Not one humble constable nor a solitary inquisitive policewoman. Even a highly-publicised incident involving an overweight Scottish television personality (who during a dispute over an unpaid bar bill had hurled a stool through the window) had later been settled without the need for a lawsuit. The name of the Madagascar was not blemished in the tabloids, where it was referred to simply as a ‘west-end club’. No football fans. No one with a respectable golf handicap. Mostly tennis and squash hoorays. “All right, captain?!” Jet-setters. Big tippers. All-over body tans. Self-made Essex boys with pit-bulls at home. Some ski-tans; ‘downwardly mobile’ reverse-out pandas. Porsche turbos and designer jeans. Silk ties and posing pouches. MIDEM, VIDCOM and the Cannes Film Festival. “Yeah, that’s cool.” Roman shoes and Vidal Sassoon conditioner. Mussels. L’Escargot. Valium. “Basically.” Piazza people. Three days growth and RayBan shades. Risqué positions. World rights. “Any other territories available?” Nose jobs. Distressed leather and psycho-analysis. Hair gel. Residual royalties. Bounced cheques. Blow jobs. Silver spoons and hair transplants. No toupees. Soft pack Marlboros. A gramme on credit. Orthodontic work. Lanson Black Label. “Thanks for the beer, mate.” Porcelain smiles. Massage and beauty. “Good gear.” A run in the park and smoked salmon sandwiches. Snow jobs. Hepatitis. Work-outs. Manicure. Pedicure. Facial sauna. Swimming pools and amyl phials. End-of-tour bashes. Backstage passes. Cognac slurring. Champagne and ‘Charlie’. Jacks and ponies. The Radio One playlist. Grands. Razor blades and be-jewelled roach clips. More grands. Holland Park. Reneging. Affidavits. Writs. Divorce proceedings. Mews houses. Unpaid parking fines. Settlements. Contractual options. Debentures. New York on the car phone. Libel actions. Sexually-transmitted mortality. Jewish jokes. Talking assholes. Jewish jokes. Empty suits. The Madagascar. “Have you heard the one about the rabbi...” *
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