My significant other adores two things (besides me): guitars and the blues. He's found out there's this bar where you can jam in the heart of Soho, so that's where we're headed.​​

Ain't nothing but the blues bar is a tiny hole-in-the-wall on Kingly Street. Nothing special, you'd think from looking at it, a bit dirty and run-down even.

Inside the place is packed to the rafters - already, and it's only eight o'clock or so. One of the things I love about going out in Britain as opposed to the mainland: you can go to any bar at half seven and it'll be brewing with life. Over here pensioners are out at half seven, to go to bingo night. People under forty don't risk to be seen prowling the streets until well after eleven.

 

There are people literally in every nook and cranny of the cramped space. Every mismatched chair at every table is taken by mostly - surprisingly - youngish people, while the bar stools host some more weathered-looking species. Some of them are eating a brown mush, accompanied by nachos.

'We could have eaten here', my boyfriend says. I'm glad we didn't.​ By miracle we find a seat on a green velours bench that seems to emit puffs of smoke every time someone sits down or gets up. We manage to squeeze our bums in between some Italian students, who don't seem to mind at all but carry on hoisting full pints. The whole bar breathes an athmosphere of excitement, good cheer and black mould growing unbridled. The diversity among the people here is enormous and yet everyone seems to get along fine. My boyfriend decides to worm his way through the crowd to see how the jam works. How do people even get drinks here? 

 

I start chatting to a very friendly local couple, who assure me that the tube is very safe, even by night. They don't look like your bluesy types at all to me, but then who does in this place. The Italians have started chatting up some Dutch-looking girls, although they don't speak Dutch. A young guy who looks the spitting image of Dizzee Rascal takes the stage with a stratocaster. He wears a baseball cap back to front - surely either he's in the wrong bar or we are? Nothing of the sort. Seconds later Dizzee starts shredding blues licks on his strat - my God, this bloke is good! And he's only, what, sixteen? Or looks it anyway. By the time my boyfriend's up for his jam session, I've somehow acquired a glass of coke and mellowed to the whole vibe. Even the faint smell of old sweat and the large drops of condensation trickling down the walls don't bother me anymore. The man I love is on a stage in the heart of London, taking the crowd by storm. Over in the corner I see an extremely tall, skinny man who looks a lot like Jesus, and a tiny Japanese girl with short, spiky grey hair, locked in the devil-may-care embrace of new lovers.

Nothing or nobody is EVER weird in London.