I miss High St Kensington Market. Good place to go and pick up weird cheap books, mags and records and meet loads of bored goth girls. OK, so you could hardly move, the place stank of joss sticks and every 6th stall was some Indian bloke selling 'ANARCHY' or 'FUCK THE POPE' T-shirts, but it was a nice place to waste a Saturday afternoon. The hairdressers were all on acid, by the way.
A proper Chelsea pub populated by fallen upper-class types, jobbing actors, booze-wracked ex-footballers, heroic, unrepentant boozers of every hue and a man called Ron.
Turned into battleship grey gastro horror and then fell victim to property developers.