The Peter Principle

Saw a headline on the front of the Mirror today that said: Cheryl Speaks.
Well, I read it, and I couldn't understand a word she said.
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According to a couple of Sunday papers tourists are flocking to Brentwood in Essex because they've seen it in TOWIE.
Can I just say, no they're not.
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Walk into a pub anywhere in the south of Essex and ask for Pete and at least five people will turn round and acknowledge you, including at least one woman who misheard you.
Everyone seems to be called Pete. Or Peter. But mainly Pete.
I used to think it was a generational thing and applicable to workmen. Last week I had a Peter painting the outside of the house while another Peter was fixing a boiler with an electrician called Phil but I think his real name is probably Peter and he calls himself Phil because he has a Porsche Boxster with a registration plate beginning FIL.
But my daughter has a friend called Pete who's quite posh and young so that blows that theory out the water. I have several other friends called Pete who range from printers to social workers. The Indian bloke in the newsagent is called Peter. They're everywhere (Peters I mean, not Indian newsagents.)
And they've been around for years. My family lived in Sidney Street, Stepney opposite two blocks of flats called Painter House and Siege House named after the Siege of Sidney Street which was 100 years ago this year and led by an anarchist called Peter the Painter of course. Which was made into a film with the lead role taken by a very young actor called Peter Wyngarde (remember him?)
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Last night at around 9pm I was sitting in a dark basement watching a bloke dressed only in a leather jockstrap playing the ukelele and singing I Want To Be Like You, the song from The Jungle Book.
As you do. Naturally I was in the seediest part of Soho, at Madame JoJo's.
When I was young Soho seemed both dangerous and exciting and as lads we would wander round the area looking for trendy bars or arty cinemas or fashionable nightclubs while being approached by prostitutes and making bloke jokes about the sex shops.
Now it seems less so. Less dangerous, less exciting and less seedy. It's very gay round there. The sex shops seem to be more kitsch than genuinely shocking and aimed at middle class housewives who want to pep up their marriage. My wife lingered for a while outside one I noticed.
The prostitutes weren't particularly busy either. I heard a tale about a friend of a friend whose husband was over-domineering and told his wife to be more sexy. He suggested she go to Soho and find out where the toms got their underwear. And she did! She wandered round and asked them. And they told her. And she went out and bought some. He left her for a catalogue bride in Thailand and she went on to have a genuinely happy and successful second marriage instead.
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Only another two weeks, max, to discover if Andy Murray is a great British champion or a whiny Scottish loser. I hope it's the former but, let's face it, we all know what's going to happen don't we?
Game, set and match....Solly