Honestly, I can't believe I bought the tee shirt (above) but I did. I can't believe Julie loved the place, but she did (she is year of the rat Chinese wise). The Flying Scotsman is the daggiest of strip venues, but our friend Danielle was dancing there, so because of that we stopped by. Sometimes it's good to go to the daggiest of venues, you might get surprised. OK, the glasses are plastic, the dancers appear to dance in the dark, there's no pole, and you may want to take a shower when you get home, but it reminds you of something real, echoes of Tijuana perhaps. The atmosphere is certainly one of stables (there used to be sawdust on the floor) and if you lean against a wall there is the sense you may fall through it on to the street, like in some cowboy film. The walls might be constructed of pallets, and held together with flock wallpaper and hunting prints. Still, the girls didn't seem to mind, and there was a certain (but not that certain) friendliness to it all.
As Kings Cross develops in to one of those asinine public spaces that really do look like the architects drawings of them, it was a relief to find the Flying Scotsman still there, that some element of the reputation of Kings Cross survives. Maybe that's why I bought the tee shirt.