"Maybe so dear," said my mother, "but what you see in those 'dreadful' coffee bars I never will know." And with a twinkle in her eye as she brandished an imaginary rolling pin added, "Now you be home by eleven, or I'll want to know the reason why."

By that time, of course, I was halfway down the path that would lead me to the bus that would take me to the train that would carry me to Soho, the most magically exotic square mile in the whole of London.

Now there may be those among you who, when trudging to work along Wardour Street on a cold and rainy Monday morning, might fail to see anything remotely magical or exotic about the place. But, allow me to assure you that back in the '50s the skies were always a cloudless blue, the evenings were always golden, and every night a million stars shone down as nightingales sang in Soho Square.

Back then the streets were filled with beatniks and banjo pickers, artists and accordion players, poets and pop stars, tambourine tappers and tall tale tellers. There were hep cats, hip cats, black cats, jokers, smokers and 'hey' - midnight tokers!

Back then the flower sellers and the fruit and vegetable stall holders in Berwick Street Market were always bright and cheerful. "Luverly lupins," they'd cry as they decorated their stalls. "Beyootiful bananas!"

Back then the Bobbies on bicycles rode slowly and majestically along, two by two of course. "Evenin' all," they'd say as they passed by, and, with a friendly, white-gloved tip to the helmet, "Mind 'ow yer go."

And then, of course, there were the ladies of the evening. Back then they were all gorgeous, elegant, alluring and seductive. And, believe it or not, every last one of them had a heart of gold. Or so I was told.

As she has done for so many centuries, Soho held out her arms to welcome a constant cavalcade of cosmopolitan characters. 'Give me your poor', she seemed to say; 'give me your tired, your hungry, your huddled masses yearning for spaghetti bolognese, chicken fried rice, and maybe a little moussaka washed down with a glass of retsina!'

I don't remember exactly what it was that first lured me into Soho. It certainly wasn't the coffee. I do remember going to Cy Laurie's Jazz Club, Russell Quaye's Skiffle Cellar and the Top Ten Club, so it was probably the music.

I was always broke, so whatever possessed me to buy a set of bongos, I'll never know. Maybe it was my passing interest in West Indian calypsos about cricket matches. But buy them I did, a beautiful bright red pair of bongos . . . the real thing. Long before Cliff Richard (playing the part of Bert Rudge, aka Bongo Herbert ) graced the silver screen in Wolf Mankowitz's Expresso Bongo (set in Soho and starring Laurence Harvey) I had already been there and done that.

I never played calypsos, though. 'Ballads and calypsos had got nothin' on real country music that just drove along' (if you know what I mean), so I just walked around Soho trying to look cool in my duffle coat with the bongos under my arm. Occasionally I sat in with a guitarist named Tony who provided the entertainment at a Greek restaurant. I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, and probably not much sense of rhythm either. I am very grateful to him for his tolerance.

Fortunately no one, not even the great impresario Larry Parnes (who could rival the Princes of Serendip when it came to discovering young boys) managed to discover me. And a very good thing for England, too, I should think.

The world's first coffee house opened its doors in Damascus, Syria in 1530 A.D. No double decaf iced cafe latte for those guys I'll bet. A couple of tiny cups of their potent Syrian brew would probably have kept them up until four in the morning solving all the problems of the world. What they would have made of the hissing, steaming, bellowing, Gaggia Espresso machines of today, I can only imagine.

Certainly Soho had its fair share of coffee bars. Notable among them was Heaven & Hell, located on Old Compton Street. Heaven was at ground level. It looked like Hell, so I never ventured past the front door. Even stranger was Le Macabre on Meard Street. You could have your coffee on a coffin in a cobweb festooned house of horrors, wearing sunglasses at night whilst having earnest discussions about the difference between Jean Paul Sartre and Dizzy Gillespie . . . tres cool.

There was also Chas McDevitt and Nancy Whiskey's Freight Train (named after their huge hit record) on the corner of Berwick Street and Noel Street (best jukebox in town). If I had sixpence for every sixpence I spent playing Bill Dogget's Honky Tonk, the Drifters' There Goes My Baby and the Everly Brothers' Bye Bye Love, I'd sure have a lot of sixpences.

And then of course, at 59 Old Compton Street, there was the one and only, home of the stars and birthplace of British rock 'n' roll, the world famous 2 i's!

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